


Like Sudden Lightning

by shiphitsthefan



Series: The Poets Leave Hell [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #ItsStillBeautiful, Abducted Psychiatrists in Trunks, Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Asexual Will, Bathing/Washing, Blatant Misuse of Pinterest, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Bottom Hannibal, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming In Pants, Crack Treated Seriously, Dark Will, Do You Want to Build a Snowman?, Dom Will, Domestic Fluff, Dry Orgasm, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Except For The Polish Psychiatrist, First Kiss, Frottage, Gentle Dom Will, Glove Kink, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, Murder Husbands, Murder Kink, Murder Suit, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Physical Restraint, Possessive Will, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Praise Kink, Protein Scrambles, Relationship Negotiation, Sassy Will, Sub Hannibal, Subdrop, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Under-negotiated Kink, Vulnerable Hannibal, Will Loves Hannibal, and they all lived happily ever after, gray-A, light pet play, murder fluff, murder tableau
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-07 14:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7718239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will’s free hand was in Hannibal’s hair, pulling them together over the gearshift, and Will’s lips were against his. “In case we get caught,” he finally explained, pulling away, shoulders heaving. “I couldn’t bear the thought of us getting caught and never having kissed you.”</p><p>They walked to the shuttle. They walked through the terminal. They walked through security. They checked baggage and boarded and took their seats on opposite sides of the plane. They never held hands or acknowledged what happened in the car, Hannibal somewhat confused and riddled with new questions and Will having all of the answers but not sharing them.</p><p>First and foremost, Hannibal wondered, “How many dogs will he bring home?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this fic for several months now. What better reason than to celebrate [It'sStillBeautiful](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/HanniCreative_ItsStillBeautiful)? I'd tell you what the prompt is, but that would give away the ending. Think of it as a kind of bastardized 5+1. Actually, it's more like (2x5)+1 because I can't count.
> 
> This is my absurd design.
> 
> My thanks forever and always to the lovely people of the [Cannibal Pub](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/). Additionally, a rousing thank you to [Llewcie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works) for being a wonderful beta and an exemplary human. <3

_Like sudden lightning scattering the spirits_

_of sight so that the eye is then too weak_

_to act on other things it would perceive,_

_such was the living light encircling me_

_leaving me so enveloped by its veil_

_of radiance that I could see no thing._

 

_\--Dante’s Paradiso, Canto XXX_

 

When Chiyoh fished Will and him from the churning waters of the Atlantic, the only thought occupying Hannibal’s mind was, “Did Will just try to kill us both?” He looked over at Will, sputtering water, leaning back on his elbows in the sand, face upturned to the sky, far more relaxed and happy then someone who had thrown himself off a bluff had any right to be. Hannibal laid on his good side and reached out to Will, who grabbed his hand without looking.

“Were we meant to die?” Hannibal asked him, squeezing Will’s fingers to prove that he was real.

“No,” Will told him, and he let his head dip back farther. Sea water dripped down his throat. Eyes now closed in strange contentment, he continued, “We can’t die, Hannibal. We can only be caught.”

His **first** question answered, Hannibal closed his eyes, too, and succumbed to the exhaustion in his bones. When Hannibal woke up, Chiyoh was gone, Will was stitching up his side, and they were inexplicably in the bed of a pick-up truck.

“This is hardly sanitary,” said Hannibal, breathing through the sharp stabs of an inexperienced suturing.

“Shut up and stop bleeding,” Will replied.

At this point, Hannibal’s **second** coherent thought was, “Where are we and why do we have a truck?” He looked to his left and into the eyes of a man with a scraggly beard and a weathered red baseball cap.

“Who is this?” asked Hannibal.

“My very second kill.” He paused mid stitch before he amended, “Well, third, I suppose, if you count Hobbs.”

Hannibal grimaced as Will began stitching again. “I thought Francis was your third.”

“No,” said Will, and he pulled Hannibal’s head back to look at him instead of the corpse. Will was smiling, face still covered in blood, his own wounds still unstitched. “That was our _first_ kill.”

Hannibal took a shuddering breath. _“Our_ first?”

“Yes.”

“You intend for us to kill together again?”

Will rubbed his thumb across Hannibal’s cheek, stroked back and forth. “As often as is prudent.”

He let Will finish stitching in silence; tired beyond measure, even speech was exhausting. Eventually, Will hefted him out of the bed of the truck, and leaned him against the side. After deciding that Hannibal could hold himself upright, Will grabbed the dead man’s ankles and pulled him from the back, as well. The man’s head hit the pavement unceremoniously, split open and splattered like an overripe melon.

Hannibal watched Will kick the man along the ground, heft him over the guardrail, and dump him into the sea.

Both safely inside the truck and on the road, Hannibal asked, “How long did we wait for someone to stop?”

Will looked at him briefly before turning back to focus on driving. “Not long, in the grand scheme of things.”

“It was very unlikely,” said Hannibal, leaning his head against the window, closing his eyes at last.

“Perhaps God has some mercy, after all,” Will replied, still smiling. “Go to sleep, Hannibal.”

And Hannibal had, feeling safe for the first time in three years.

During their secluded recovery, as far off the grid as was possible, there hadn’t been spare energy to devote to deep thought. He and Will either slept, ate from their meager store of the previous owner’s canned foods, or furthered plans for their escape from the country. Pain was ever present as they healed, but neither complained--pain had defined their entire relationship.

The two of them didn’t talk much during the time they spent in the cabin. It wasn’t due to any unpleasantness that still hung between them; that, too, had been lost to the Atlantic. Speech was, for the first time in their shared life, unnecessary. They could read each other too well, had lived as phantoms in each other’s minds for so long.

What they _did_ do was touch, as often purposed as it was unprovoked. Showers were taken together, at first out of simple necessity when their respective wounds kept them from scrubbing themselves completely on their own; after, it was simply out of habit, having grown used to washing each other’s backs. There was only a loveseat, and no compunction for both sitting on it; only the one bed, and no conversation about whether or not they would share it.

Hannibal woke once in the middle of the night to the scratch of Will’s stubble against his shoulder. It was followed by Will’s left arm snaking under Hannibal’s pillow, his right tossed sleepily across him. Will’s hand settled on Hannibal’s chest, fingers tangling into the fine silvering hairs.

He had his **third** vital thought then, or rather, a series of thoughts comprising in one whole. There had been neither time nor need to think about he and Will together; of course they were together, for where else would they go? But that nature, that union was the sole matter Hannibal couldn’t assume that they agreed on.

The ten or so seconds of thoughts and analyses rapid-firing across Hannibal’s brain resulted in the question, “What are we?”

“Here,” Will had croaked out, voice rough from sleep. “We’re here.”

“And tomorrow, Will?” asked Hannibal. “What shall we be then?”

“Together, I should imagine.”

“Shall we leave together?”

Will sighed and untangled his fingers long enough to pull Hannibal’s arm over him. “Leaving separately never seemed to work out for us very well,” he said as his fingers retook their spot over Hannibal’s breastbone.

He didn’t look over to reassure himself of who he was in bed with, only tightened his hold as he had when Will led him down to the water. It was a different sort of plummet, but more dangerous, Hannibal thought. His fourth, as it was.

“We are here, yes,” Hannibal eventually whispered into the dark, “together, yes, you and I, in the same spot beneath the same sky. And I know what you are to me. But what am I to you?”

Will never answered. Hannibal hadn’t expected him to.

They left the safety of the cabin behind a few weeks later, ditching the stolen truck in favor of an inconspicuous rental car. The drive to the airport held no original conversation, only that prompted by Pimsleur’s _Conversational Polish_ audiobook and Will’s frequent frustrated cursing that Hannibal’s Polish was so much better than his already.

“I have always been a quick study,” Hannibal told him.

“Sure, but I’ve been listening to this for two _weeks,_ and you literally just started while we were packing.”

“Perhaps you should have started while we were unpacking,” said Hannibal, glancing over at Will in the passenger seat.

Will rolled his eyes. “Just for that, I’m making you take an extra turn driving.”

Beyond playful bickering, the drive was boring. They only stopped to switch sides, or to refuel, and once so Will could get, “Probably the last fast food of my entire life.”

“I sincerely doubt you’ll miss it.”

Will popped an oversalted fry in his mouth. “Absolutely not the point.”

By the time Hannibal parked at the airport, there had been nothing but nervous tension for several dozen miles. The only noise had been the drone of the audiobook instructor and Will’s restless tapping of one finger against the armrest. Hannibal swallowed dryly, neither of them speaking. He removed the keys, and his seatbelt, and was only stopped from leaving the car by Will wrapping his hand tightly around Hannibal’s wrist.

“Wait a minute,” Will said quietly.

“What’s wrong, Will?” Hannibal turned to look at him, but Will was looking at the floorboard, at his feet, at the box that insisted the listener needs only thirty minutes a day to learn Polish. Will’s free hand clutched his knee, and he breathed shallowly.

And then a burst of movement, and Will’s free hand was in Hannibal’s hair, pulling them together over the gearshift, and Will’s lips were against his, and then Hannibal had the answer to his **fourth** question.

“In case we get caught,” Will finally explained, pulling away, shoulders heaving. “I couldn’t bear the thought of us getting caught and never having kissed you.”

Will smiled, released both hair and wrist, and got out of the car. It took Hannibal a few minutes to process what had just occurred, long enough for Will to have the bags out of the trunk and rapping his knuckles against the driver’s side window.

They walked to the shuttle. They walked through the terminal. They walked through security. They checked baggage and boarded and took their seats on opposite sides of the plane. They never held hands or acknowledged what happened in the car, Hannibal somewhat confused and riddled with new questions and Will having all of the answers but not sharing them.

Out of all of the new data Hannibal had to roll around in his head--Would Will be open to further physical affection? Was this a one-time occurrence born of fear? What did Will even expect out of a romantic relationship? Was this going to _be_ a romantic relationship?--his brain managed to latch on to the one of least consequence. A **fifth** thought, a stupid thought, but still one that would likely determine how smoothly they would spend the remainder of their lives together.

As they lifted off and began the journey toward Poland, Hannibal wondered, “How many dogs will he bring home?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm happy so many of you are enjoying this! It's been so much fun to write--I'm going to be starting on the last chapter after dinner, which (ostensibly) means a new chapter every day. <3

Watching Will appreciate their new home was an unparalleled joy. Hannibal had owned the house for a long time, anticipating moving here in his old age. He’d never expected to have someone to share the villa with, someone who would appreciate the craftsmanship of the place, the juxtaposition of folk art with the sophistication of 19th century eastern Europe.

“What is this called?” Will had asked, running his hands over the solid wood panels on the porch which substituted for rails. Hannibal watched his fingers trail along the edges of the hand-carved woodwork. “The style, I mean. The architecture.”

“Zakopane,” Hannibal told him. “This home was not constructed by  Stanisław Witkiewicz himself--”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“The architect who developed the style,” explained Hannibal. “He was also an artist, a novelist, a journalist--”

Will bowed his head and laughed. “So a nonviolent you, essentially,” he said.

“You flatter me, Will.”

“Elegance and practicality,” Will continued, admiring the house, and then looked up at him. “Rather like us.”

Hannibal was used to showing very little emotion, but Will has always been the exception to all of his rules. He outright  _ beamed _ as he watched Will walk up the stairs, noting how Will never lifted his hand away, touching it like a lover, drawing the tips of his fingers over the banister. The view was memorized immediately, filed away where Hannibal could replay it when he wasn’t so choked up.

Of all the places he had taken Will to in his mind, this house had never been one of them; he’d never thought to bring him here. In a strange way, he was glad; the imaginary visit would have spoiled reality.

Will stood on the porch, approached the door, reached out as if to touch it, but stopped. He turned to look down at Hannibal and said, “Do you want to do the honors?”

And yes, Hannibal did. He walked briskly up the stairs, pulling out the key they had rescued from a safe deposit box just hours before. Will grabbed his arm again as Hannibal went to unlock the door; for a brief moment, Hannibal thought Will was going to kiss him again.

Instead, Will looked at him and said, “It’s beautiful.”

Unfortunately, Will didn’t feel quite the same once they’d walked through the door. The overt appreciation he held for the exterior turned into complete disdain for the interior. From the decor--

“Hannibal.”

He turned around from studying the painting on the wall of the study. “Yes?”

“You have candelabras.”

“I enjoy candlelight.”

Will glared at him. “They’re four feet high and shaped like stags. You have a legitimate  _ herd _ of candle holders.”

Hannibal crossed his hands behind his back and inhaled deeply. “At least my herd does not track mud through the house and shed on the furniture,” and here Hannibal reminded himself to later ask about the probability of Will creating a pack.

“Also, did you keep this much weaponry on the wall before?” asked Will, deftly avoiding the topic and pointing at the display of katana. “Additional question: do I want to know what kind of bone was used for the handles?”

Hannibal briefly looked away, but met Will’s gaze again quickly, narrowing his eyes. “Is that a problem?”

“I...I’m not sure how to answer that,” Will admitted, “but it’s at least better than the strangely ornate desk with  _ legs made of antlers _ and--” Will stopped, straightened up, looked at the painting behind Hannibal. “You...Hannibal, what the hell is that?”

He glanced over his shoulder, as if he suddenly wasn’t sure. “That would be  _ Leda and the Swan _ by Peter Paul Rubens.” When Will said nothing, Hannibal added, “A different rendition than the one from my home in Baltimore.”

“What is it with you a-a-and...” Will threw his hand up and gestured at the painting in exasperation. “Do you have an ornithology kink or something?”

\--to Hannibal’s more esoteric collections--

“You have two harpsichords,” noted Will. “One in the study, now one in the...what is this, a sitting room?”

Hannibal cleared his throat. “There’s another upstairs.”

“Please let that be a joke.”

“I never joke about harpsichords.”

Will groaned. “Why, pray tell, do you need three harpsichords?”

“I don’t  _ need _ them,” Hannibal corrected him, “I just prefer other people  _ not _ having them.”

“Oh my god,” said Will, “you have to own all of the toys in the sandbox. What are you, three years old?”

“The majority of individuals who would own a harpsichord would either not play it or not take care of it properly,” he explained. “Either of those inactions would be a heinous insult.”

“Just…” Will shook his head and sighed. “Just show me the rest of your ridiculous house.”

\--to his suspiciously clean linens.

“Um, Hannibal?”

“What now?”

Will picked at the windowpane plaid cream and slate gray bedspread. “Nothing’s dusty. Please tell me Chiyoh isn’t going to pop out of the pantry in your stupidly large kitchen.”

“If she should do so, I promise to act suitably surprised.”

“Okay,” said Will,  _ “now _ you’re joking.”

“How do you think we have clothes in our closet, or these elegant modern lamps--” He paused to point at the two tall thin rectangles, lit from within by a strip of clear LED. “--Or food in the pantry? That Chiyoh isn’t going to emerge from, of course.”

“...We’re having the locks changed.”

And thus, their first evening in their home had ended with Hannibal promising Will that he could add whatever sort of furnishings or ornamentation he would actually  _ like, _ and of _ course _ he could build a shed somewhere on the property so he could have a place to keep fishing equipment, and if he simply  _ must _ sleep in the guest room, then that was perfectly  _ fine. _

It was. Completely.

Hannibal is lying in bed now, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how he and Will went from bed and shower sharing to kissing in the airport parking lot to sequestering themselves in separate rooms. When upset or baffled--or both, in this case--Hannibal would typically go cook, but the thought of doing so and not eating with Will was unbearable. He could sketch, he supposes, commit to paper what he committed to memory a handful of hours before, but the awed way Will had called his house,  _ their _ house beautiful was too similar the way he said it the night he sealed his fate with Hannibal’s. Hannibal isn’t currently in the state of mind to draw it properly, to give it the gravitas it deserves.

What he does instead is lay there, on top of the duvet with his hands folded on his stomach, wondering how he’s going to fall asleep tonight. After sleeping in a plexiglass box for three years, with bored night wardens who liked to use the overhead lights to play, for all intents and purposes, “poke the cannibal with a stick”, Hannibal had thought he’d had enough sleeping with the lights on for the remainder of his life. But he has on the two lamps, and the light in the en suite, and the light in the walk-in closet. The darkness reminds him of Will, of a warm body beside his. If he cannot sleep in the shadows next to Will, then he will lie awake in the light alone until he can lie awake no longer.

Maybe Will is right; maybe he is like a child, after all.

Then again, Hannibal isn’t the one who became petulant upon crossing the threshold. That particular distinction belongs to Will.

It doesn’t make sense, at least not to Hannibal. Will has led them in their post-fall dance every step of the way, and Hannibal has been happy to follow. Being permitted to watch Will come into his own is a distinct honor. This is the first time Hannibal has taken the wheel since they tumbled into the sea together; Will was more than amenable to settle with him here, but he had no real say in the decision. But it’s possible that could have something to do with Will’s behavior. He certainly never complained about his interior decorating before.

Whatever Will’s issue may be, Hannibal wants to know so he can soothe it away.

After another half hour or so of studying the intricate woodwork on the ceiling, Hannibal’s nearly talked himself into going to sleep in the wine cellar. Even the bed reminds him of Will; knowing his luck for the past few hours, however, it’s just as likely that the wine will, too.

“Hannibal?”

He doesn’t bother sitting up, simply turns his head on the pillow. Will stands in the gloom cast by the bedroom door, but Hannibal can see enough. One arm hangs at his side, and his other hand is scratching at the skin inside of his elbow. His sleep pants are loose in the leg and ride low on his hips, and that’s new, seeing Will without a tee on at bedtime.

“Come in, Will,” and he does, timid in a way Hannibal almost doesn’t recognize anymore. Will sits on the side of the bed, facing away from him, staring down at his hands. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“The inside of this house,” continues Will. “It was just…” He turns to look back at Hannibal. “The way it was decorated. It reminded me too much of your home in Baltimore, and suddenly...I don’t know, I felt suffocated.”

“It’s understandable,” says Hannibal, holding his hand out to Will, who takes it and provides the counterweight to help him sit up. He swings his legs over the side of the bed to sit next to Will. “We are here to start our new life together, and everywhere you look, you see our old one apart.”

Will nods, and Hannibal realizes he hasn’t let go of his hand.

“Will?”

“I don’t know how to sleep without you,” he says. “I don’t  _ want _ to know how.”

“You don’t have to.”

“And I know I kissed you earlier,” Will continues, “and it was good. Really good. It felt _ right. _ Still...I honestly wasn’t ready for it to happen. I needed to know, though. If we’d been stopped, found out, then the only way I would’ve survived captivity again would be living in my head with the knowledge of how we fit together, even just that once. But we made it, and we’re here, and I  _ want _ to be here, with you.”

Hannibal stands up, pulling Will with him, ostensibly to turn down the sheets, but Will moves back into his arms. Unable to help himself, he nuzzles Will’s cheek, kisses the scar there tenderly. “Is this alright?”

“Yes.” Hannibal feels Will’s face pull into a grin. “Affection is fine, just not the...the rest of it. I’ve only kissed three women. Only slept with two, and that was more for companionship than anything else. I’ve never acted on an attraction to a man, sexual or otherwise.”

“I know.”

Will huffs. “Of course you do.” He pulls back, hesitates, and then kisses Hannibal’s cheek in return. “It’s okay, though? For me to be here anyway?”

“More than,” says Hannibal, and he moves away, starts to turn down the sheets. “I prefer to share a bed with you, to embrace. Regarding sexual relations, of course I don’t mind to wait until you are ready.”

Walking around to the other side to do the same, Will asks, “And what if I never  _ am _ ready?”

“Then I’ll still be here, exactly where I am,” says Hannibal, smiling at him as he gets back into bed. “And where you can always find me.”

At first, Will doesn’t react, just stares at Hannibal blankly. He continues looking confused as he turns off the lights. It finally dawns on him once he has one leg under the covers, and he begins to laugh. “That was  _ terrible.” _

“I wondered if you’d remember.” Hannibal stretches out his arm, and Will nestles gratefully into his side, scooting down just far enough in the bed to use Hannibal’s bare shoulder as a pillow.

Will lays his hand on Hannibal’s chest, as he has for nearly a month now. “How could I forget?”

Just as Hannibal’s drifting off to sleep, warm and comfortable and happy, he realizes that the question of dogs still remains unanswered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's got it so bad.

The first few days at the villa have been idyllic to say the least. They wake up in the morning and shower--together, as they’ve been doing. There’s more intimacy to it now, though, touch that is no longer careful, but curious. Relearning, to find what is pleasurable; remapping, to see each other’s body in a new way.

He and Will make meals together--Hannibal has found him to be an exemplary sous chef. The two of them talk more now, discuss all of the times they spent apart. Will tells Hannibal about sailing across the ocean to find him; Hannibal tells Will about how he spent his time in the BSHCI, waiting for him to finally visit.

“Did you know I would?” Will asks, rinsing off the nakiri bōchō.

“Sail to Italy, or come see me behind glass?”

“Either.”

Hannibal continues deboning the chicken. “Yes,” he says, after careful thought. “To both.”

Will turns off the water, but doesn’t turn around, and neither does Hannibal. “How could you know?”

“As I told you in the Uffizi, we are conjoined. It’s why I gave myself up. So you could find me, once you were ready.”

And Will is behind him, suddenly, which is as much an act of trust as any, surprising a killer who’s holding a knife. He winds his arms around his waist, and Hannibal puts down the santoku hōchō in favor of reaching back and holding Will in return.

“Why?” Will asks. “Why would you trust me when I’d already betrayed you?”

“Because you weren’t the first of us to betray the other.” He sighs, content with the welcome weight of Will’s head on his shoulder. “It was no trouble to wait for you, Will. I did not suffer there, as you did. Confinement doesn’t trouble me.”

“Would it now?”

Hannibal releases Will only to turn in his arms to face him and grab his shoulders. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, it would.”

They finish cooking dinner, though it’s hardly to Hannibal’s usual standards, both of them laughing together as Will follows him like a shadow, and refuses to let Hannibal go.

 

* * *

 

“I have two questions,” Will says over breakfast the next morning. He’d managed to beat Hannibal out of bed to go downstairs and make coffee and French toast; it was the first time Hannibal’s showered alone in months, and was an extremely unsatisfactory affair.

Hannibal pauses and lowers the fork. “Will, did you make breakfast to make me more likely to acquiesce to your request.”

“Requests,” corrects Will. “Plural.”

“Go on.”

Will looks down at his plate. “How do you feel about strays?”

Ah. The question Hannibal’s been expecting. “I am...amenable.”

“So, let’s say,” begins Will, meeting Hannibal’s eyes again, “hypothetically, I brought one home without asking. How would you feel about that?”

Hannibal grimaces. “That would be fine. Hypothetically.”

“Good.” Will picks his coffee back up, grins at Hannibal over the top of it.

“But you said you had _two_ questions.”

Will pulls the cup back away from his lips before he can take a drink. “I want to hunt,” he says, then takes his sip.

“Do you have a target in mind?” Hannibal already knows that the answer is--

“No. Not yet.”

\--but he’s doing his utmost to stay calm. “Then what are we hunting?”

“I thought that maybe,” Will gazes at him, either coyly or slyly, both, as far as Hannibal knows right now, “I could resume my therapy.”

Hannibal clears his throat. “And do you need a referral, Mr. Graham?”

“If you don’t mind, Dr. Lecter.”

 

* * *

 

Hannibal accompanied Will on the three hour long drive from the villa to the nearest English-speaking psychiatrist the first few times, not only to keep Will company, but to do some basic memory mapping of Warsaw. It could come in handy, should the hunt end poorly. Discovering unique shoppes and the antiques therein was entirely coincidental.

“You don’t  _ believe  _ in coincidence,” Will reminded him on one of the drives home. “And I don’t believe we need a gramophone, either.”

“It’s actually a late-model Columbia Graphophone and--”

Will side-eyed him. “And I’m not going to help you load another one in the back of the damn car.”

Hannibal folded his hands in his lap. “I should think not.”

“Good.”

“They’re very rare; it’s unlikely that I’d find another.”

“Okay, next therapy session I have? You’re staying home.”

So Hannibal does, not because Will told him to, but because it’s good for Will to have time where he is truly alone. Besides, Hannibal wants to stay home, for now, at least. There’s music to compose; books to read; a murder to prepare for, though the details he’ll leave to Will, of course.

Hannibal’s been leaving most of the decision-making itself to Will these days. The whole situation screams of horrible domesticity, and it baffles him how quickly he’s not only adapted, but come to enjoy it. Even in his wildest imaginings of a culmination to his and Will’s friendship--the rare ones that didn’t end in one or both of them dead and possibly digested, at least--Hannibal would never have dared to allow his favorite human any sort of control whatsoever. The Hannibal that first met Will in Jack’s office--while just as taken as the Hannibal of now--wouldn’t have let him out of  _ sight,  _ let alone given him permission to take the car and be gone for seven hours.

He hadn’t given him permission, though. Hannibal had given Will something far, far worse--freedom.

Sitting in the study at his desk, finally allowing himself to sketch Will on the front steps, Hannibal wonders what would happen if Will simply didn’t come home. Instinctively, he tells himself that he would continue on as he always had: alone. Hannibal would need to move, in case Will was recognized, or went to the authorities, or…

He sets down his pencil, sits back in his chair. The idea of Will Graham dying is anathema to him now. Will had promised Hannibal, hadn’t he, all those months ago at the edge of the sea.

“We can’t die, Hannibal,” Will had said. “We can only be caught.”

And oh, how Hannibal is caught. A life without Will would be a life without direction. He has submitted to him, wholly, fully. Maybe that was Will’s design all along, to invite Hannibal’s surrender, to make him love it, to love  _ him, _ to trust that Will would never again betray him.

“It’s beautiful,” Will had told him. Hannibal wonders, for the first time, exactly what Will meant.

Hannibal doesn’t know how long he sits in the chair, staring blankly at the unfinished sketch on his desk, fighting off tears and fear and longing. It hadn’t been like this, not in his Baltimore kitchen, not in Florence, not in the snow in Wolf Trap, not even in his cage. He had controlled it, but now Will is his--or, more accurately, he is Will’s--and his vision blurs, his shoulders shake, he pulls his knees to his chest and wraps them in his arms and sobs like Will is already lost to him.

It has been nearly four years since Hannibal cried. In his session with Bedelia, he cried talking about discovering just how greatly he needed Will after he’d had him committed. Hannibal broke down, telling her that he thought he could live with his choices, but he couldn’t, and she had questioned his tears. He couldn’t even let himself cry after killing Abigail, after leaving Will bleeding out in his kitchen floor. But now there is no one to question, no one to judge him, and Hannibal’s tears fall freely.

Arms wind around him and pull him up, then down onto the floor, then into a lap. Hannibal’s face is tucked gently against a warm neck, and he smells Will, feels Will’s hand in his hair and his lips on Hannibal’s forehead, just where his hairline begins.

“What happened?” Will asks him.

Hannibal shakes his head. It’s too embarrassing to admit to; he’s too ashamed to discuss it.

“Did you…” Will’s chest expands with his forced inhalation. “Did you think I wouldn’t come back, Hannibal?”

“It’s been so long since we were apart.” The words are pulled from Hannibal’s throat. He couldn’t possibly stop them now, even if he wanted to. “I was fine, for a while, and then I missed you.” Hannibal kisses Will’s throat, nothing more than a press of his lips to Will’s skin. “I’ve given you all of me without realizing, and if you were lost, then so, too, would I be.”

Will squeezes his arms around him, rocks him like a child. “I’ll never leave you, Hannibal. Never. I promise you,” and Hannibal’s hair is as damp as his cheeks. “I’d burn the world to find you. I’d kill them all to save you.”

“I believe you,” Hannibal whispers.

“I’m the only one who will ever catch you,” says Will roughly, possessively, and Hannibal’s never felt safe inside a string of words before. “You’ll never be alone again.”

They fall asleep like that, huddled in the floor beneath Hannibal’s desk, hiding from the wind and the snow and the millions of sheep outside.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal wakes first, and the cramps in his arms and legs are unbearable. It takes him a few minutes to unfold himself. He takes a few minutes more to straighten out Will’s legs and arms, and yet another for Hannibal to remove his own sweater and roll it up to put under Will’s head.

Will doesn’t wake up, but he does begin to snore softly, and Hannibal can’t help the smile that blossoms on his face.

He makes his way to the kitchen, grimacing as he goes. Their bodies are too old for sleeping on the floor like starving artists. Hannibal rubs his eyes with his fists, looks at the counter, then rubs them again.

There, on the counter next to the knife block, is the ugliest lamp Hannibal has ever seen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief mention of someone throwing up. There are no details of said sickness. <3

Will wanders into the kitchen as Hannibal is sliding the quiche into the top oven. He’s rumpled all over, from his tangled curls frizzed out from his head at odd angles to his incredibly unpleated, supposedly wrinkle-free khakis. His superfluous glasses balance precariously on his nose, tilted across his face, one leg springing up from behind his ear and disappearing into his hair.

Hannibal has never seen a more endearing sight in all his days.

“G’morning,” Will grumbles. He throws his hand out to the counter, searching. “Coffee?”

“I knew I’d forgotten something,” says Hannibal, and he goes for the French press and already ground coffee. He is loathe to use the inferior beans, but Will needs caffeination immediately.

“How d’you function without coffee?”

“Very carefully.”

Will groans as he slips onto the chair at the counter. “First cannibal puns, now dad jokes? Bedelia was right--you’re gonna kill me.”

After measuring the grounds, Hannibal reaches over to get water from the automatic hot water dispenser. “I find that extremely unlikely.”

“Yeah, me too. You feelin’ better?”

Hannibal closes his eyes and stands very still, holding the measuring cup. “I apologize for last night. My emotions got the better of me.”

“There’s nothin’--” Will yawns loudly. “Nothing to be sorry for. I’m sure I’m overdue for a breakdown. Just a matter of time.”

“How was your therapy session?” asks Hannibal as he begins to brew the coffee.

“Horrible. He wanted me to talk about my mother. Kept telling him I had no idea who she even  _ was. _ Killing him is going to be so easy.”

“Too easy?” Hannibal looks at him over his shoulder as he pulls a mug from the cabinet.

“Nah,” says Will with the first smile of the morning, still sleepy and too big for his face. “A good start. A good second for us.”

“This is for both of us?”

“Can’t imagine doing it without you.” Hannibal feels Will tugging at the waist of his lounge pants; he turns completely around, holding the mug, looking at the ridiculous sight of Will practically on the counter, reaching for him. So he lets Will pull him in, lets him grab at the drawstrings and awkwardly yank him forward until Hannibal’s hips bump against the counter. Will is kneeling in his chair now, balancing precariously.

He does the most unexpected thing; he boops Hannibal on the nose. Hannibal blinks, almost offended.

“How could I not take you with me?”

“You poked--” And it’s absurd, the words about to come out of his mouth. “You poked my nose.”

Will shrugs. “I was curious. Wondered what you would do if I did.”

“We’re discussing the impending death of your therapist, and you poked my nose.”

He outright giggles. “Because you’re being silly.”

Hannibal  _ is _ offended now. “I’m never silly.”

“You make puns about eating people in _ front  _ of the people you are feeding aforementioned people _ to,” _ says Will. “You can never relinquish the title of world’s silliest serial killer.”

“You’re quite insane.”

“Which I have you to thank for, dear.”

Hannibal straightens but doesn’t back away; Will tightens his grip on the drawstrings to prevent him, and that’s...strangely perfect. “‘Dear’?”

Will glances away and has the decency to look embarrassed. “Would you prefer a different endearment?”

“I’m not sure I prefer any endearment.”

“You’re lying,” says Will.

Hannibal clears his throat and admits, “Perhaps.” He changes the subject, prying Will’s fingers off of the drawstrings. “Your coffee is likely over-brewed.”

“That’s okay. I drank Quantico quality motor oil for years.” Will’s blessedly silent as Hannibal pours the coffee into the mug. He takes the cup--Hannibal simply thrusts it behind him, suddenly deciding to make hash browns, which means he must peel and shred potatoes. Will lets him work, and the only sound in the kitchen for a while is his unfortunate slurping of the coffee. “You haven’t said anything about the lamp,” he finally points out.

“Ah,” says Hannibal, jerkily looking over at the ugly thing. “Why...why is it here?”

“You said it was alright,” reminds Will. Hannibal steels his features because he did tell Will he could add his own personal touches to the decor. He simply hadn’t expected an earthenware dog figurine with a light fixture unceremoniously stuck into it. The lampshade was at least palatable, though still tacky--a short black cylinder with gold trim on the top and bottom edges.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“I forgot my appointment was scheduled an hour later than usual--”

“I thought you came in later than expected.”

“That’s why, yeah. Anyway, I had time to walk around, and there was this little junk shop, and I saw this in the window.” Hannibal hears Will pick up the lamp; it scrapes against the counter to Hannibal’s dismay. “I haven’t seen a Staffordshire spaniel in a long time. They were made in pairs, you know.”

Thank God Will only found one, even if it was a black-and-white, gold-collared monstrosity. “I didn’t.”

“It’s hard to find a matching set anymore. The owner had no idea what he had; I picked it up for cheap.”

“And where do you intend to put it?” Hannibal asks. He moves to the fridge to look for the bacon grease he preserved from the last time Will insisted on a “normal breakfast”.

“Well we don’t have a lamp here in the kitchen. There’s really nothing of mine in here. They’re supposed to go on a mantel, but I like it better on the counter.”

“But what if it were to fall and break?” He hesitates, then adds, “Accidentally, of course.”

Will laughs as he sets the lamp back down. “A risk I’m willing to take.”

“Of course you are,” Hannibal mumbles to himself.

 

* * *

 

It becomes a habit, Will occasionally bringing home new finds when he returns from his therapy appointments. Hannibal almost appreciates it, if for no other reason than it makes him dread Will coming home, so there are no more emotional outbursts regarding his absence. Often, they’re bits and pieces and random objects. Hannibal knows a potential DIY project when he sees one, unfortunately, so he spends one of his days alone cleaning out a large walk-in closet in the basement for Will to have a room to craft in.

“You’re such a good wife,” Will says thoughtlessly, rising up slightly on his toes to kiss Hannibal’s temple. He blanches almost immediately and corrects himself. “That was uncalled for. Also kind of sexist. Well, theoretically. It’s just that I come home and you’ve done things around the house and you’re so remarkably domestic and--and I’m not making this any better. Because women don’t have to stay home, and you aren’t a woman, which is wonderful, and Jesus, that sounds bad, too, and--”

Hannibal presses a finger to Will’s lips. “Be quiet, please.”

(Secretly, he rather enjoyed that line of blathering thought, as old world and patriarchal as it might have been. Hannibal chose not to examine the pleasured warmth that spread in his chest.)

The first art to emerge from Will’s craft closet is a pair of light bulbs nestled within whiskey bottles on a pulley system. Hannibal is mortified, and a little impressed.

“I found these light bulbs in that same junk store,” Will tells him excitedly. “Vintage 40 watts. I saw the pulley in the garbage, and the bottles...Well.”

“Those are from the housewarming party you insisted we throw for ourselves.”

“Yes.”

“After which you vomited in the master bath.”

Will frowns. “I cleaned it up.”

“You ruined the rug.”

“Who keeps an antique rug in the bathroom?”

Just to spite Hannibal--or, at least, that’s Hannibal’s theory--Will had installed the whiskey bottle pulley lamp monstrosity right over the toilet. Now, whenever Hannibal uses the facilities, he briefly considers murdering Will.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Will jogs up the stairs from the basement with his second creation, the third lamp he’s introduced to their home, and Hannibal doesn’t even know what to make of that. Will pops into the kitchen while Hannibal’s making dinner testing a new twist on his traditional  buta no shogayaki before they make it out of Will’s therapist.

He clears his throat. Hannibal turns to see, and very nearly drops his tongs.

“What,” he asks Will, “is  _ that?” _

“Remember that antique store you found the damn phonograph in?”

“Graphophone,” Hannibal corrects.

Will sighs heavily. “Sure, yeah. I wandered in after my appointment and there was this antique meat grinder,” he says gesturing to the Alexanderwerk No. 10 model in his hand. The grinder plate and front wing nut have been removed, and replaced with what looks to be a very small headlight. On the back, Will’s removed the handle for manually grinding the meat; a cord for the bulb comes through it, instead.

“And you thought it prudent to bastardize it into a lamp?” asks Hannibal disdainfully.

“We could hardly have used it as a meat grinder.”

“I had a manual-operated one in Baltimore.”

“And you still have one here, too,” Will says, and his grip on the Alexanderwerk lamp tightens. “But I thought this would be a better lamp for the kitchen. We can move the dog to the mantel in the sitting room, where it belongs.”

Hannibal closes his eyes slowly. He’s seething. “Is this a test, Will?”

“You said I could--”

“I know,” Hannibal says, turning back to the stove, defeated.

Dinner cheers him up, though, Will praising his way through the entirety of the meal. It’s not anything new--Will is always very appreciative, even when he acts as sous chef--but there’s been a noticeable shift in their dynamic, as of late. Hannibal’s become more comfortable with his own emotions ever since the night in the study. Likewise, instead of unconsciously following Will’s lead, Hannibal is doing so by choice now.

Will doesn’t so much accept it as he does run with it. The more control Hannibal cedes, the happier and more confident Will becomes. Perhaps, too, this is part of their becoming; Hannibal brought out the monster in Will, and now Will is bringing out the human in Hannibal.

He’s musing on this as they finish cleaning up after dinner, Will finding excuses to brush into him, to touch. Hannibal is surprised to be pulled into an outright embrace, but happily so. That is, until Will says, “Move the Staffordshire to the mantel in the study.”

Hannibal freezes in Will’s arms, then pulls back to look at him. “Are you asking?”

“No.” Will grins. “I’m not asking.”

“Telling, then.” Hannibal is confused by his own shallow breathing, by the slight increase in his pulse.

“Yes.” He pauses, and then, “Yes, please.”

Hannibal just nods, and does as Will says. He can puzzle through his strange reaction to following an order later.

As he makes room for the godawful lamp on the mantel, Hannibal wonders when the parade of lamps will stop and the acquisition of actual dogs will begin.


	5. Chapter 5

They walk the near kilometer of the way from the house to the mailbox together every afternoon. It isn’t so much that they expect mail as it is a need for normalcy, an excuse to venture outside of the little world they’ve created for themselves at the villa. While they could take the easy route, down the long, curving driveway, Will and Hannibal bundle up and trudge through the snow, instead.

“We’re flipping the bird at our enemies,” Will told him on the first of their daily journeys, about a week after moving in. “We’re leaving the most obvious trail possible, and no one knows to follow it.”

“We have a driveway,” Hannibal reminded him. “They could follow the driveway, Will.”

Will shrugged. “This is more dramatic.”

“Do you enjoy being dramatic?” asked Hannibal with a smirk. It had quickly changed to a confused frown when Will pushed him down into the snow.

“I warned you not to psychoanalyze me,” said Will, laughing. His cheeks were red and chapped, and there was snot starting to run out of his nose from the cold, freezing to his upper lip, but Hannibal found him beautiful still, gorgeous in his joy.

Hannibal held out his hand for Will to help him up, then smiled and pulled Will down into the drift with him. Will glared, but scrambled his way to his knees, walking on them until he reached Hannibal’s legs, sprawled out in the snow like he was prepared to make a snow angel. He maneuvered until he straddled Hannibal’s hips, and wound a hand around Hannibal’s shoulders.

“That was predictable,” Will chided him. “I expect better from you.” But Hannibal had no counter to Will’s sass, too busy trying to remember how his lungs worked. After waiting for a reply that didn’t come, Will raised an eyebrow at him. “What, nothing to say for yourself? Now that  _ is _ unexpected.”

“I’ll do better next time,” said Hannibal, “when I’m less distracted.”

Will smiled again, and leaned in to whisper, “Do I distract you?” His breath was warm on the shell of Hannibal’s ear, and Hannibal closed his eyes reflexively.

“Always.” He was glad for the multiple layers he wore, though it was so cold Hannibal doubted his cock could do more than stir. Primarily, though, he didn’t want to spook Will in this rare moment, this sudden seduction. Hannibal wouldn’t dare push Will, not into physicality; he would be perfectly happy for Will to tease and deny him for the rest of their lives. It wouldn’t be much of a change from their lives before.

Will leaned back and looked at Hannibal as if seeing him for the first time, albeit with a confidence he never had in front of Jack Crawford. “Do you enjoy being...distracted?”

“Yes,” murmured Hannibal in response.

“Good,” said Will, then dumped a handful of snow down the back of Hannibal’s parka. Needless to say, they never made it to the mailbox that day.

They’ve taken time out to play in the snow since then, learning how to as they go, neither one of them ever having done so before. Most days, like today, Hannibal and Will walk arm in arm down, and hand in hand back, no mail to come back with them. Today, however, there’s a package in the mailbox. Or, more precisely, next to the mailbox, leaning up against the stonework base.

Will rubs his hands together excitedly. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this!”

“For what?” asks Hannibal. He doesn’t remember Will mentioning placing an order.

“It’s a shirt,” says Will. “A t-shirt. I think you’ll like it on me. Oh! And a lamp.”

Hannibal sighs. “Another lamp.”

“You said--”

“I did.”

“And it looked so lonely,” Will continues. “It was the last item on the seller’s page. Deeply discounted, trying to get rid of the poor thing.”

“Well,” says Hannibal, resigned to his fate as co-curator of a museum of questionable light sources, “let’s get back to the house so you can show me.”

Will looks at him slyly. “Maybe you’d carry it for me?”

“Certainly not,” Hannibal tells him. “You’ll use it as an excuse to throw snow at me.”

“Hannibal,” and oh, the assertive tone to Will’s voice. Hannibal’s awakened a monster of an entirely different color. “Carry it for me.”

He hesitates, then takes it from Will.

“You’re so good to me,” says Will, and reaches up to tuck a strand of hair back beneath Hannibal’s knit cap.

He follows Will back up the hill, not knowing how to respond. Will is whistling, some tune Hannibal is unfamiliar with. It’s delightful, watching all of Will’s pieces come together, both the ones he knew lay hidden and those he never foresaw, such as this--at what point could Hannibal have guessed that Will even knew  _ how _ to whistle beyond calling for his dogs? This playful, mischievous side of Will had only ever been hinted at before, a yearning that shone in his eyes like a light, a smile that never managed to reach his lips for fear of being seen for what he truly was.

Hannibal remembers the first time he saw it; he couldn’t forget it if he tried, the way Will looked at him when he came to “resume his therapy”. Will called under false pretenses, but the conspiratorial smirk they shared when he told Hannibal he would kill him intimately, that he would use his hands--that couldn’t be manufactured. It was a lustful leer for blood that no one but Hannibal could ever see, like the moment they shared in Mason’s slaughterhouse, when Hannibal dangled in his straightjacket overhead. (And that had secured it for him, the desire he felt to be helpless and at the mercy of this unpredictable force of nature, never sure whether it would kill him or kiss him.)

The glance Will throws over his shoulder at Hannibal now is the same--the secret glee at tearing Cordell’s cheek out with his teeth, the hidden amusement at Hannibal sending the Dragon to his family, the saucy smile when he came to play at begging in the BSHCI, the curious grin when Hannibal took Francis’ bullet for him. All looks they’ve shared in both intensity and emotion. The only difference now is that Will allows it to consume his entire face.

Hannibal would do more than obey that face and the man who bears it. He would follow that face to hell. He imagines that he shall.

 

* * *

 

“I want to practice,” Will says that evening, wearing his new shirt with his favorite soft flannel pajama pants. “I just want to drink wine and rescue dogs,” the tee proclaims, as if to remind Hannibal of his forthcoming doom. But it’s tight across Will’s chest and upper arms, so honestly it could read, “VEGAN 4 LIFE,” and Hannibal wouldn’t care.

He sets down his tablet and drinks the last of his wine. “Practice what?” Hannibal asks.

“Taking down Dr. Lewandowski. I want to be prepared.”

“How do you propose to prepare?” He has an idea of what Will is asking for, but wants to hear him say it.

“I want to stage it,” says Will, pausing to sip at his own glass. “To ensure there is no room for error, of course.”

“Of course.”

“So,” says Will, “I’m going to take my new lamp to the bedroom--”

Hannibal’s face falls. “Must you?”

“Come on, how can you say no to a face like that?” Will gestures to the scotty dog on the gasoline pump globe that currently sits on the side table next to his armchair. “It even has a pun on it.”

“‘Dog-on Good Gasoline.’”

“Yeah! Because it’s got a dog on it,” explains Will cheekily. “And also doggone. It’s a double pun. I thought you’d enjoy that.”

“Take it to the bedroom,” says Hannibal. “If you insist.”

But Will sits back instead, appraising Hannibal over his near-empty glass. Hannibal has the uncanny feeling of being not only undressed, but dissected. It isn’t altogether unwelcome.

“I changed my mind,” Will says after the long moment of intense silence. He doesn’t move, doesn’t unfold his legs or put down his wine. “I want you to come here.”

Hannibal almost asks, “In what manner?” before realizing that would give away his entire hand.  Let Will discover on his own exactly how obedient Hannibal can be. This is Will’s game, not his. So he simply stands, pushing the sleeves of his red sweater up his forearms, and walks toward Will.

“Stop,” he tells him when he reaches the halfway point, and Hannibal does. He’s barely taken three steps, but he stops, because Will asked him to. Will finally sets down his own empty glass and stands up himself. He licks his lips; Hannibal follows the movement of his tongue. “Turn around,” and Will is flush against his back as soon as he does.

His throat is dry as he asks, “What now, Will?”

“I approach him slowly, quietly. He never sees me coming. He never has a chance. I grab his arm, just above his wrist, my fingers on the posterior of his arm, my thumb on the softness inside,” and Will does, but his grip on Hannibal is loose, almost gentle. “I bring it behind him, wrench it, twist it up and against his back.” Hannibal puts up no resistance, though, and Will’s manipulation of his arm is fluid, like he’s leading Hannibal in a dance. “I pull him back to my height, and wrap my other arm around him.”

Even with his back curved at such an extreme angle, Hannibal’s more relaxed than he’s been in months, since the last time he wore the mask and jacket, secure in the knowledge that Will had his best interests at heart, regardless of what he said. This is freeing, so he doesn’t hide, letting his face tilt toward Will’s, meeting Will’s gaze with half-lidded eyes.

_ “God, _ Hannibal,” Will says reverently. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath; when he reopens them, it’s all calm collected confidence again. “Tell me. Be honest. How long has it been? How long have you gone without relief?”

He could prevaricate, but there’s no reason. “Florence,” Hannibal admits, and he watches Will’s eyes widen.

“Your free hand, Hannibal. If it’s too much, tap me twice, alright?” He nods, and Will fondly nods back. “Say ‘please’, if you want me to continue.”

Hannibal’s moan is nearly imperceptible, more of a labored exhale. “Please, Will.”

He doesn’t break eye contact. “I put my hand over his mouth,” and he does, catches Hannibal mid inhale. “No chemicals to assist me--I want him to pass out from my own power alone. So I clamp his nose shut with my thumb and forefinger,” and Will does that, too.

Hannibal resists his body’s urge to move; he forces his muscles to relax instead, to the point where Will has to lower them both into the floor, Hannibal practically in Will’s lap. His grip on Hannibal’s arm and nose and mouth remains sure, though, never faltering. Hannibal’s lungs start to burn, but his cock continues to fill steadily, because  _ this _ is what he’s been missing, that feeling of lying at Will’s mercy, of trusting that his surrender will be rewarded instead of punished.

His vision starts to blur, but Will looks at him like he’s in awe, and it no longer matters how much oxygen is left at his disposal. Will has to have noticed how tented his lounge pants are by now; there’s no answering erection that Hannibal can feel, but that doesn’t matter, either. Hannibal’s body begins to involuntarily struggle as the fight or flight response kicks into overdrive, and he succumbs to it, revels in it, is nothing more than the sum of his organs and Will’s approval.

“Touch yourself,” floats Will’s voice from far away, and his body obeys though his eyes are rolling back in his head. Hannibal clumsily presses his free hand to the front of his pants; he doesn’t have enough energy to do more than lay it there. It makes contact, though, a sudden pressure that makes Hannibal groan weakly, expelling the last of his air. Will kisses his forehead--”Good,” he praises him--and removes his hand from Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal gasps for breath as he comes, and every contraction of his muscles is amplified, intensified, electrified. Will curses, and then kisses him, and Hannibal can’t breathe again. It’s clumsy, and Hannibal can barely reciprocate, still drained and dizzy. Will breathes into his mouth, and Hannibal swallows it, takes it in, makes it his.

When he finally begins to drift back to himself, Hannibal’s lying on the floor in Will’s arms, and they’re still kissing, and dogs are the furthest thing from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the love of Josh, **absolutely DO NOT engage in breathplay with an inexperienced partner**. This doesn't fall under the safe, sane, and consensual (SSC) umbrella; erotic asphyxiation is an edgeplay activity and potentially very dangerous. Instead of SSC, edgeplay activities are considered to be risk-aware consensual kink (RACK). Even with an experienced Dom taking the highest degree of caution, erotic asphyxiation can lead to an extended loss of consciousness or even death. I didn't use the RACK tag for this because these two had nothing remotely close to a discussion prior to engaging in breathplay, which is a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad idea. Always talk before kink, even the vanilla stuff.
> 
> tl;dr, don't cut off someone's oxygen without the presence of an experienced professional, with the obvious exclusion of these two murdering idiots that fantasize about killing each other over brunch.


	6. Chapter 6

Hannibal vaguely remembers Will pulling him up from the floor; in fact, he’s certain that he fell asleep while they were making out. Were he a younger man, or even one who’d had an orgasm in the past three-and-a-half years, Hannibal might consider being embarrassed. He hopes Will takes it as a compliment, but knows that it doesn’t matter--Will won’t mention it, or even think it an issue.

The world begins to gradually refocus somewhere between walking through the bedroom door and being eased down to sit on the padded lid of the toilet in the en suite. Will attempts to move away, and Hannibal wraps his arms around him unthinkingly, head resting against Will’s stomach.

“We need to clean you up,” Will says softly, but Hannibal keeps holding him. Will’s belly rises and falls as he breathes--what a curious element, oxygen, to the air-deprived--and his hand falls, too, strokes through Hannibal’s hair. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

Hannibal hums and closes his eyes again. “I’ve never  _ been _ like this.”

“And what are you?” asks Will. “Besides a giant cat.”

“Extremely content.”

Will laughs, as gentle as his touch. He twists to grab the vanity chair from the corner behind the bathtub. After he’s placed the chair where he wants it, Will pulls a washcloth and a fresh bar of chamomile soap from the shelf. He says, “You can come sit next to me in the floor while I run you a bath.”

You  _ can, _ not you  _ will. _ An invitation instead of an order. It’s easy, to let Will guide him to sit next to the vanity stool--”Not on your knees, keep yourself comfortable.”--and to lay his head on Will’s thigh, reintroducing himself to the feel of a full breath, listening to the water lap against the porcelain as it fills the tub. Will smooths his hand from the crown of Hannibal’s head and down, over and over, taking care not to ruffle his hair. Hannibal’s  _ beyond _ content now; he’s downright  _ soothed _ .

“We’ll need to talk about this,” says Will, “at some point.”

Hannibal feels momentarily compelled to press up into Will’s hand, but it passes. “What do you wish to know?”

“What I’m doing, for starters.”

“Just lead, Will,” and Hannibal runs a lazy hand down Will’s shin. “There is nowhere you could take me that I wouldn’t follow.”

“I think that may be the most terrifying thing you’ve ever said to me.” Will slowly stops petting him in favor of trailing the middle knuckles of the same hand down the side of Hannibal’s neck, the same repetitive motion that entices him to stay in this trance-like state. Hannibal lengthens and bares his neck to him. “How long have you wanted this?”

“Since Tobias Budge failed to kill you,” Hannibal says. “I have never been more relieved in all my life.”

“Why would that make you...Jesus.” There’s a hitch to Will’s breath. “Why would that make you want to submit to me?”

“You looked down at me, and I looked up, and I didn’t want to stop.” Hannibal blinks once, twice, and now he doesn’t fight the urge to tilt his neck further, to present it. Will pauses and then lightly trails his nails down Hannibal’s neck instead. “The urge became stronger after you sent Matthew Brown. I had done wrong, and you punished me for it.”

“Did you want it to be my hands?” asks Will. He grips the back of Hannibal’s neck. “Or did you feel undeserving of them?”

Hannibal’s slipping further under, letting the fog cloud his brain. “Both,” he admits. “I always went where you could find me. The night I surrendered at your home, it was you who I knelt for, Will. I fell to my knees in the snow for  _ you.” _

“I wish I’d known.” Fingers wipe away tears Hannibal doesn’t remember forming and falling. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand before.” Will exhales harshly before continuing. “But I wasn’t ready then.”

“Not yet.”

Will rubs a thumb behind Hannibal’s ear, and Hannibal wonders how many other beasts he’s tamed the same way. “You could only let an equal master you.”

Hannibal sighs, a breathy little noise. “Yes.” He rubs his face against Will’s pants leg.

“Be careful, Hannibal,” says Will, and then, “no, no, you don’t have to quit that. You can touch me freely right now.”

He pushes his face in harder, breathes in the smell of flannel and laundry detergent and the oatmeal soap Will uses when he bathes. “I appreciate that,” Hannibal tells him, and keeps nuzzling Will’s leg, encouraged by his quiet laughter.

“I just meant I could get used to you like this.” He finally stops stroking Hannibal’s neck, reaching to turn the water off. “I can’t believe I never noticed your preference for submission. Though you are also a controlling, manipulative bastard, so maybe I  _ can _ believe it.”

“I deny nothing,” Hannibal tells him, smiling.

Will taps his shoulder as he stands, ”Up, up.”

“I am not one of your pack, Will,” says Hannibal, but there’s no malice, only obedience. Will takes him by his forearms to steady him when he wobbles.

“No,” Will agrees, and he releases one of Hannibal’s arms, starts to take his other out of the sleeve of his sweater. “I believe I called you a cat.”

“What kind of cat?” Hannibal asks. He tries to help undress himself, but Will  _ tsks _ him.

“I’ll have to think about it. And I don’t need your help,” says Will, moving to the other arm, “but thank you.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Dip your head a little so I can get your sweater off.” Hannibal does, and Will says. “And before you ask, ‘What else?’ Don’t. You see--keep your head down, please, I’ll get your undershirt while you’re here.”

“Apologies,” but Hannibal doesn’t feel sorry, and he’s sure Will knows it.

“You’re a terrible liar,” says Will, because he does. “I told you it was alright to touch. Unless, that is, you don’t want to?”

Hannibal rolls his shoulders, then reaches out to run his fingers through Will’s curls.

“Oh, I like that. Good choice.” It’s only cursory praise, but Hannibal revels in it, anyway. “You should’ve done this sooner, though.”

“I was awaiting direction. It may have come to your attention that I enjoy being under your thumb.”

“And it may have come to yours that I enjoy having you there. I believe that mutual enjoyment is what led to you needing a bath,” Will says, unsubtly glancing down at Hannibal’s groin. “Arms down now, please. No more touching.”

Hannibal stands there, eyes closed, enjoying Will’s slow, careful touch as his underwear and pants are removed. No words pass between them--Will presses behind a thigh for Hannibal to lift his leg, taps on the top of it when he wants him to put his foot back down. It’s easy to sink further still into the spell Will put on him in the sitting room.

Will runs his hands along Hannibal’s legs as he stands back up, around behind his thighs, and up to his ass. He kisses along his hip bones, down one and across and up the other. Hands and mouth keep moving, ever upward, until Will reaches his head. He runs his thumbs under Hannibal’s eyes and up to his temples. “Open, please,” he asks, and Hannibal does. “You look so peaceful,” Will murmurs, wrapping his fingers around the back of Hannibal’s head.

“I am,” and he feels warm, standing here before Will, bare in every way possible. More quietly, he repeats, “I am.”

Hannibal is pulled into a kiss--at least, Will kisses him, but Will hasn’t said what is permissible yet. Every muscle tenses because he doesn’t want to break the rules and touch; he struggles to keep his eyes open because he was asked to; his eyes are watering.

Will smiles against Hannibal’s mouth. “You can kiss me, idiot. If I’m kissing you, kiss back.”

“Can I touch you again?”

“Not yet,” says Will, and he nips at Hannibal’s bottom lip. “I’m kind of enjoying feeling you squirm while you try not to put your hands on me.” Another bite, but Will pulls more of his lip into his mouth, sucks on it longer, worries it a little. He dips his tongue into Hannibal’s mouth to caress his own. He gives Hannibal a playful look once he’s taken his fill of the wet warmth and Hannibal’s incoherent sounds of enjoyment and frustration. “Come on,” he says, and pecks him once more before walking behind Hannibal to stand on the other side of the clawfoot tub. “Let’s get you washed up.”

Will holds out both of his hands, but Hannibal doesn’t move.

“Hannibal?”

He licks his lips slowly and stares at Will’s palms. “You said not to touch.”

“God, you’re perfect, you know that?” Will reaches over and grabs Hannibal’s hands. He squeezes them and tugs and says, “Into the tub with you.”

Hannibal steps in, and the water is slightly too hot, but the burn is good on his feet and calves. He wants to sit down--the desire for a nice, long bath is unexpectedly desperate now that he’s faced with real opportunity--but he can’t. It occurs to him that he should be more troubled by this blatant submission, by his willingness to not even sit down without Will’s say-so, but he isn’t. Will isn’t saying anything, though, and the water feels wonderful, and if he could only sink into it, and--

“Please,” Hannibal says, and his voice is shaking; he almost doesn’t recognize it. There’s a burning coil of humiliation in his gut, that a tub full of water could reduce him to begging. Except it isn’t the water’s fault he’s begging, and it isn’t Will’s, not really. “Will,  _ please,” _ and he stares at his feet growing increasingly more and more red in the water.

“Oh, right.” Will pushes down on his shoulders carefully, and Hannibal groans with relief as he sits down into the bath. “I told you, I really have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing beautifully,” Hannibal assures him. The unease dissolves into the water, and the calm flows back.

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable doing this all the time.” Will pulls back Hannibal’s hair and runs the washcloth over it. “If that’s even something you’re wanting.”

“Whatever you will give me, Will.” Hannibal tilts his head back, eyes closed again. “And this  _ is _ a gift, all things considered.”

“You mean because of my disinterest in sex.” He hangs the washcloth over the side of the tub; Hannibal can hear it dripping onto the floor. “Intimacy goes beyond sex, Hannibal. The two of us know that more than most.” Will’s soap-lathered hands begin gently scrubbing Hannibal’s scalp. “You’ve given me control over the most physically intimate act a person can experience beyond death. That brings me more than enough pleasure.”

“I do not deserve you,” whispers Hannibal.

“It isn’t about what you deserve anymore,” Will reminds him. “It’s about what I  _ decide  _ you deserve, and I won’t tolerate you thinking otherwise, okay?”

“As you say, Will.” Hannibal’s guided back so that Will can rinse the soap out, cupped hands full of water pouring over his hair. He looks up, and sees Will’s luminous art hanging there from the ceiling, and wonders if Will sees the same shine in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting chapter seven tomorrow, and I think there will be just one more after that! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Murder is sex and sex is murder."--Bryan Fuller, probably

Will is entirely, completely, utterly, irrationally, insanely unpredictable. He comes by it naturally, Hannibal supposes; even when following Jack’s plan, Will had veered wildly off-course. Not that Hannibal’s complaining about that, considering that it was a key part of Will’s awakening and acceptance of himself.

He is, however, complaining about the mess Will made of Dr. Lewandowski’s abduction.

“I thought you had a plan,” Hannibal says as he pulls out of the driveway and begins the long drive home. “We memorized it. Practiced it.”

Will makes a noncommittal noise. “Well--”

“You had me make _flash cards.”_

“It worked for my students,” says Will, shrugging. “Besides, you draw crime scenes better than I do. Mine are just random stick figures and arrows.”

“No wonder your clocks were terrible.”

“Um, no, I do believe that was because you were seeing how big of a hole you could burn in my brain from the inside out.”

Hannibal huffs and drives a little faster. “Regardless, you were incredibly off-script.”

“I couldn’t do to him what I did to you,” Will admits. “It seemed...blasphemous.”

“Blasphemous?” asks Hannibal.

“Yeah. We create, and we destroy. We are legends, or you are, at least. Which makes me like a consort, I suppose.”

“Are you the virgin sacrifice to a pagan god, Will?”

Will looks at him and laughs. “To a god complex, perhaps.” He reaches over and starts rubbing at the base of Hannibal’s skull. “Though you prefer the serving aspect, so maybe _I’m_ the god.” Will chuckles. “Do you enjoy worshipping me, Hannibal? Or are you a god, after all?”

Hannibal says nothing, trying to focus on the road as Will drives the tension from his neck.

“‘When someone asks if you’re a god, you say yes.’” Will licks his lips. “I bet you’ve never seen _Ghostbusters,_ have you?”

“I’m surprised that you have.”

“Price and Zeller forced it on me to cheer me up after you sliced and diced Beverly,” says Will, and he takes his hand back. Hannibal chases the touch as much as he can, but it doesn’t return.

“I was going through a difficult time.” He drums his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. “You’ve diverted our conversation.”

“What was it again?”

“We were discussing your complete disregard of the plan.”

“Oh, right.” Will clears his throat. “So I couldn’t sneak up behind him and do the partial asphyxiation, because I’d much rather keep finding new and interesting ways of doing that to you.” He glances over at Hannibal and asks, “Would you like that?”

Hannibal grips the wheel more tightly as his upper lip curls involuntarily.

“That’s what I thought,” says Will with a predatory grin. “Since that was the case, I just...well, used the case that was at hand.”

“You brained him with a trumpet case.”

“And gained a trumpet,” Will reminds him. “Now I don’t have to go looking for one.”

Hannibal glances over at Will. “Do I want to know why you need a trumpet?”

“I dunno, I thought a superfluous trumpet would look nice next to a superfluous harpsichord.”

“I will have you know,” says Hannibal tightly, “ that none of my harpsichords are superfluous.” A pause, and a long exhale, and then, “You could have at least used the rope. Duct tape is the mark of an amateur.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Will begins, folding his left leg underneath him and turning in the seat. “I was going to, and then I remembered this fantastic dream I had before you introduced me to Randall.”

When Will doesn’t continue, Hannibal glances back over and says, “Go on.”

“You were tied to a tree, and there were ropes around your neck, and they kept getting tighter--” And Will reaches over again and grabs Hannibal’s right wrist, squeezing progressively harder. “--and tighter and tighter. So I saw that coil of rope in your hand and thought to myself that it might be therapeutic for me to recreate that.”

Hannibal shifts slightly in his seat. “Tell me, Will,” he asks after a long silence. “Did I die in your dream?”

Will takes his hand back, leaving white grip marks on red skin. “Would you like to find out?”

A rumbling moan pulls itself out of Hannibal’s throat. He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, because this is worse than Will telling him that he’d kill him with his hands. This is within the rules of their new game which, while undefined, provide the safety to explore such fantasies. Hannibal wants to see Will’s cruel kindness, the gentle violence only he can provide. He feels Matthew’s noose around his neck, and this feels like penance--Will, offering him what he alluded to wanting a handful of nights before.

Hannibal’s so hard that it hurts, his cock restricted further than usual by the stiff plastic of his suit. It occurs to him that he could probably tilt his hips up and rub himself to completion, and the thought of it alone is strong enough to make the back of his head hit against the headrest as he chokes back another groan.

“You can pull over, if you want,” says Will, sounding amused. “I don’t mind driving to give you a chance to compose yourself.”

He manages to pull over on the shoulder of the road without incident. Hannibal is quick to exit the vehicle, making it over to the passenger side just as Will is getting out of the car. Will closes his door, but doesn’t move away from it.

“Can I ask you a question, Hannibal?”

“Of course.”

The side of Will’s mouth twitches up; he looks lethal, dangerous. “Do you enjoy coming in your pants?”

Hannibal’s eyes widen, and he fights to keep his mouth from opening, to keep himself from swaying on his feet. He loses.

“I think you do,” Will asserts, and he steps into Hannibal’s space, a mere breath between them. “You’re so meticulous and clean and proper that you like being a secret mess. No one else can smell it on you, but you and your super nose can. You get off on keeping all of your vices hidden in plain sight, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers. He sounds desperate even to himself.

Will’s face softens, and he strokes Hannibal’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Thank you for being honest,” he says. “That was good.” He steps back again. “Why don’t you get in the car?”

Hannibal does. He opens the door mechanically and sits down, throbbing cock rubbing against the cloth of his underwear, briefs further constrained by the plastic. It takes him a few minutes to remember to buckle his seatbelt, and Will has already pulled the car back on the highway.

As soon as the belt clicks into place, Will begins talking again.

“You enjoy being dirty. I like it, too. I like you covered in blood, like you will be once we get this fool in the trunk home. I like you covered in cloth and straps so you can’t move. I like you covered in sweat--I bet it was hot in the hospital, wasn’t it? Your jumpsuit looked heavier than mine.”

“It was,” Hannibal says, and he feels himself beginning to drift. “Sometimes Alana had the air conditioning turned off.” His head feels heavy, but he looks over at Will, anyway. “I would sweat profusely.”

Will hums, but his face remains passive, and he doesn’t so much as glance over. “That would be nice, I think. To wrap you up and let you…” He smirks before saying, _“Stew_ for a while. Would you like that, Hannibal?”

“Yes. Whatever you ask of me.”

“Wonderful,” says Will. “You’re wonderful. I would take such good care of you after. You know that, right?”

Hannibal closes his eyes. “I do.”

“I’m glad. Would you like to come now, or later? Either is fine; make the choice for yourself, not what you think will please me more.”

“Now,” and Hannibal hopes he doesn’t whine. “Please, now.”

“You’ll have to wear your dirty briefs when we take care of our guest.”

“Oh _God.”_

Will’s shoulders shake in silent laughter. “You can use the heel of your hand,” he says. “Go slowly, please.”

And Hannibal does. The plastic squeaks under the pressure of his hand. It sounds loud and vulgar and grating. Hannibal almost wants to stop, but he can tune out the noise and embrace the utter relief of stroking his cock through three layers of clothing. The zipper of his pants presses into the fabric of his underwear; the cotton drags against the sensitive skin. He can’t help but wince, and he can’t stop rubbing.

“Does it hurt?” asks Will.

“Yes.”

“Do you like the pain?”

_“Yes.”_

Will taps a finger on the steering wheel. “I don’t like the idea of you being in pain without my direct involvement. Why don’t you try holding your palm flat and pressing up into it, instead?” He looks out the driver’s side window for half a second. “You know,” Will says. “Humping.”

Hannibal does, and he does, and he does. Will seems to be completely ignoring him, and Hannibal understands that he’s driving; it would hardly do to wreck the car and risk discovery. But he wants Will’s attention, needs it, _craves_ it. “May I stop?”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I want you to watch.” It comes out like a quiet sob, because Hannibal’s still moving. “I want your comfort after. Please, Will.”

“You can stop,” he says gently.

Stopping is wonderful and horrible all at once. Hannibal breathes deeply for several minutes, trying to calm himself down. It’s easier once Will reaches over and grabs his hand, lets him clutch at it like a liferaft. “Thank you,” he says after several long minutes of Will’s thumb stroking comfortingly over the back of his hand.

“I’ll never force you,” says Will. “If you say stop, then we will.”

They sit there in silence for the next twenty kilometers, holding hands, like other lovers do. Hannibal almost forgets that they have a psychiatrist in the trunk. He wonders if that’s like a spouse forgetting the groceries.

Eventually, Will says, “Go to sleep, Hannibal.” Will extricates his hand from Hannibal’s. “You seem tired. Rest. Pull yourself together in your dreams. I’m going to need your help hauling this asshole out of the car once we get home.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they pull into their own driveway, maneuvering the car through the snow, Hannibal’s woken up. He feels focused, energetic; Hannibal’s not sure if he has the nap to thank for that, or the reserved energy from an orgasm denied.

When Will opens the trunk, Dr. Lewandowski blinks back at them. Hannibal thinks there might be some creative cursing going on behind the duct tape, but Will practically masked the lower half of his psychiatrist’s face.

“Is this also practice?” Hannibal asked.

“Hmm,” said Will. “I haven’t decided yet. But it does look oddly familiar, doesn’t it?”

Will was happy then, and he’s outright bubbly now. Giddy, even. Hannibal’s never seen anything like it. He imagines that this must be what children look like on Christmas morning, should they have escaped the gunshots and the fireplace.

“Hannibal.”

“Yes?”

The tip of Will’s tongue pokes out the side of his mouth, his mind suddenly lost deep in thought, but it retracts and he recovers just as quickly. “I’ve never built a snowman. Have you?”

Hannibal frowns. “I haven’t, but I fail to see what that has to do with the soon to be late doctor you’ve wrapped in duct tape.”

Lewandowski’s eyes grow wide with fear, and he begins screaming behind the gag and rocking back and forth in the trunk as much as he is able. Will rolls his eyes and slams the lid shut again.

“I was just thinking that we have a unique opportunity here,” he says, climbing up to sit on the trunk. “I meant that we could cover a man in snow, Hannibal. Who’s ever done that before?” Will hits his fist against the top of the trunk lid and grins even wider.

“But what about our buta no shogayaki?” Hannibal asks, a hint of his disappointment filtering through. “I’ve already invited Chiyoh to dinner.”

“Of course you have.” Will scoots over and lies on his back across the trunk, looking up at the sky. “Can you come up here with me, old man?” he asks cheekily.

Hannibal can, of course. It takes him a little longer, but he’s still in excellent shape considering the bodily trauma he’s been put through. He lies down beside Will and takes his hand; they lace their fingers together.

“You remember the mushroom guy? The pharmacist? I think it was my second case with Jack.”

“A true artist,” says Hannibal. “You wanted to kill him.”

“Yeah, but I’m thinking we could--you know, like Abel with Chilton? What if we did something like that, only slower?”

Hannibal considers it. “Take nonessential organs one at a time while keeping him on a nutrient drip?”

“Yes, yes, that,” Will confirms. “I mean, he won’t need legs or arms, either. Might as well take those, too. Maybe we could start that tonight,” and he winks at Hannibal, “so I still get to see you covered in blood.”

“Thirsty, are we?” he asks, turning his face toward Will, eyebrow arched in mock surprise.

Will's eyes gleam. All he does is nod.

“We will have to re-suture him following each surgery, and then a final round once we have collected all that we desire and--”

“His mouth,” says Will. “We’ll need to sew it shut when we’re done shopping. And his eyes. Snowmen have coal, you know.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Your design is very...quaint.”

“Goes with the house.” Will scoots closer to Hannibal and puts his head against his shoulder. “You did say I could add to the decor.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go, folks! <3

Dr. Lewandowski screams in Polish instead of English, which is pissing Will off to no end. His face remains impassive, but Hannibal can tell. It’s the look in his eyes, the smell of his sweat, the poor quality of his cuts. Hannibal is probably courting trouble later, but he can’t help but goad Will further.

“Did you know that he is currently breaking doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“Oh yeah?” Will frowns and breaks one of his victim’s fingers. “What’s he screaming now?”

Hannibal smirks. “He is being extremely rude.”

“Can you just…” He waves the scalpel around with one hand and the just-removed hock of human with the other. “Can you pull a Mason on him?”

“I believe we are fresh out of eels.”

Will stabs the scalpel back into what’s left of Lewandowski’s right calf. “Don’t prevaricate with me.”

“I am merely curious as to what  _ you _ will do,” says Hannibal, “if  _ I _ do.”

“Can you break his neck to paralyze him or not?”

Hannibal folds his hands behind his back. “I don’t know, Will.” He dips his head slightly and asks, “Can I?”

Tossing the cut of meat down on the table in front of their victim’s right hand as he leaves--and Lewandowski shrieks again as the tip of his middle finger brushes against it--Will tells Hannibal to, “Start the morphine drip. Knock him out for a while.”

“Where are you going?” Hannibal follows him to the bottom of the stairs.

“Probably ought to stop the bleeding,” says Will, ignoring him as he takes the steps two at a time, snapping off his latex gloves as he goes.

“Will?”

“I’m getting the goddamn trumpet,” and he slams the door to the basement shut.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal inserts the IV port, then finishes carving up the right leg. The bone saw cuts off just under the top of the femur, and Lewandowski finally stops screaming a few minutes after Hannibal opens the roller clamp on the plastic tubing and lets the morphine start dripping. Just to be safe, he injects him with another dose of DDAVP; while it had been administered thirty minutes before Will ever began cutting--which, strangely enough, was when Lewandowski broke confidentiality, and not at the time Hannibal informed Will; hearing all of Will’s finely-crafted false life history was too amusing to stop prematurely--one could never be too safe. It would be a terrible thing, indeed, if their victim were to die before Will could finish. So Hannibal dresses the wound with the utmost care, and heads back upstairs.

Will isn’t in the kitchen when Hannibal comes in with his carefully cut tray of meat, but he hadn’t expected him to be. Though it’s been a considerable time since Hannibal’s prepared and stored fresh food, he’s lost none of his finesse. All of the cuts are sealed up and slipped away within short order.

He heads upstairs to change clothes and shower, which he needs desperately after their evening out, only to find Will sitting cross-legged on the tile floor, polishing his trumpet.

How he wishes that were a euphemism.

“Will,” Hannibal starts, “you must have an excellent explanation for why you and the trumpet are currently sharing a shower.”

He doesn’t look up, simply keeps polishing. “I was trying to get this finished before you came up.”

“Why did you start? Do you play?”

Will scoffs. “Of course not.”`

When he doesn’t continue explaining, only keeps rubbing the trumpet at a furious pace with the cloth and polish, Hannibal asks, “Then why are you cleaning your instrument?”

“Is that what they call it where you’re from?” Will smiles playfully.

“That’s crude, Will.”

“That’s me, darlin’.”

Hannibal stares at the top of his head. All he can _ do _ is stare. “Will.”

He finally glances at Hannibal’s shocked expression. “Was it the accent or the endearment?”

“Yes.” Hannibal takes a deep breath and tries to tuck this new information away for later. He’s mostly successful. “You were explaining the trumpet.”

“I wanted it to be clean before I lit it up and put it on the harpsichord in the hallway,” Will says, looking back at his latest project.

“...What.”

“I saw the case and thought to myself, ‘That would make a great lamp.’”

And that’s the last straw. Last lamp. Last both.

“Will, you will do no such thing.”

He stops. After a few even breaths, Will sets down the trumpet on its bell. Then he folds the cloth, and sets it down, too. The jar of polish, which must have been in the case, is put on top of the cloth. Will laces his fingers together beneath his chin, elbows on his thighs, then looks up.

Hannibal’s seen this face before. This is the, “I am currently plotting approximately seven-and-a-half ways to murder you and pin it on Freddie for giggles,” face.

“And why,” Will begins, “will I not, Hannibal?”

“I’m taking back the permission I gave you.”

“So let me get this straight,” he says after a long pause. “You have three harpsichords, the same number of deer candelabra, I don’t even know  _ how _ many different kinds of oyster forks, and a painting of a creepy-ass swan having sex with a woman, but I can’t have lamps? Is that right?”

Hannibal licks his lips. “I thought you might decorate with more than lamps sculpted from trash and internet auction discards.”

“You said,” and Will jabs his finger at him, pointing angrily, violently, “that I could collect strays.”

“I did,” says Hannibal, “and you haven’t.”

Will laughs sardonically. “Oh no. No, you can’t scramble my brains up with words anymore. You literally just said that you were taking it back. Now you’re trying to convince me that I haven’t even brought any home.”

Hannibal is baffled. “Will--”

“I have a trumpet _ right here,” _ he says, which explains absolutely nothing. “You know what? I’m gonna name it Abel, because it is  _ also _ physical proof that I’m  _ not crazy.” _

“Will, I don’t th--”

“And just so you know,” Will tells him as he pushes himself to his feet, “I’m going to make the biggest, ugliest lamp and I am going to screw it to your goddamn harpsichord!”

He storms out into the bedroom and out into the hall, and Hannibal hears the door close to the room Will had originally claimed as his. Hannibal follows him quickly, but not fast enough; the click of the lock might as well be a resounding echo. Returning to the bathroom, he looks down at the trumpet next to the drain of the shower despondently.

This isn’t exactly the partner he’d hoped to bathe with. He’s not actually sure what to do with it, though the urge to kick it is strong. The urge to go downstairs and kick Lewandowski is stronger, but Hannibal isn’t going to do either. All he’s going to do is take a shower, brush his teeth, moisturize, and go to sleep.

If Will’s toothbrush happens to fall out of the holder and into the bidet across the room, it’s entirely accidental.

 

* * *

 

It’s four o’clock in the morning, and Hannibal is still staring at the bedroom ceiling. He never got out of his bathrobe, simply exited the bathroom and went straight to the bed. Hannibal laid down on top of the covers on Will’s side of the bed, hands folded on his stomach, and began to study the woodwork above him. If he hadn’t memorized it the first time he laid here several months before, Hannibal might be content.

He knows that’s a lie. Hannibal could never lie in a bed contently without Will, not anymore.

The ceiling holds no clues as to what upset Will so greatly.  _ Perhaps, _ Hannibal thinks,  _ I needled him too much.  _ Hannibal’s expectations had been very high--Randall Tier’s transformation had been art to rival his own. This desire to make a snowman seems so childish in comparison. It’s beneath Will’s capabilities.

He realizes that his disappointment must have been a palpable force to Will. No wonder his cuts had been imperfect and his manner caustic. Will wanted Hannibal to guide him, and Hannibal had expected to be nothing more than an audience.

How could he have forgotten that Will had asked for a duet? Instead of directing, Hannibal had jeered to provoke a response. He’d certainly gotten one.

Hannibal turns his face into Will’s pillow and inhales deeply. His heart aches, thinking of Will sleeping alone. What will he do if the nightmares return? Will he seek out Hannibal, or bear them himself? And now he remembers Will, feverish and terrified, wandering in his sleep because of Hannibal’s own cruelty and--

He swallows a sob as he scrambles out of bed and down the hallway toward the guest room.

The door is already open, and Will is gone.

 

* * *

 

In lieu of panicking, Hannibal retreats to the kitchen. He pulls out some of the thigh cuts to make sausage; it isn’t ideal, but if Will is dead set on building a snowman, then gluteal meat is off-limits. Will would probably make some horribly off-color remark about eating ass, anyway, after which he would look at Hannibal and joke that if Hannibal could make cannibalism puns, then he was allowed to, as well.

The processing and extruding of the meat soothes him a bit, though it does nothing to distract him from Will’s absence. At some point, the sun began to rise, light slipping in through the windows, illuminating the counters. It shines on Will’s meat grinder lamp, and on the car keys tossed haphazardly beside it instead of hung on the hook as they should be.

Hannibal doesn’t use all of the ground meat to stuff the sausage casings, instead reserving enough for what would have been two links. Will has always had a strange seventh sense for when Hannibal is cooking. If he makes breakfast, then it might draw Will home. Hannibal knows deep down that it’s an absurd thought but, at this point, he’s willing to try anything, because Will’s boots are gone from the shoe rack, and his hat and scarf from the pegs on the wall, and his parka from the closet.

At least Hannibal can take comfort in knowing that Will only went for a walk, that he wasn’t asleep when he did so. Otherwise Hannibal would be out looking for him instead of making breakfast.

The skillet heats as Hannibal brews the coffee. He cooks the sausage, and chops red peppers and mushrooms and parsley. The sausage is already seasoned, so he only salts and peppers the whisked eggs. Vegetables go in with the sausage, and then the eggs are scrambled in. By the time he’s arranging the food on hot plates and putting buttered bread under the broiler, Hannibal hears the front door open, and he’s able to breathe again.

It doesn’t escape his attention that Will managed to control his breath without even being near.

Hannibal isn’t sure how long he stands at the sink washing the skillet and utensils after removing the toast, but it’s long enough for Will to slide in behind him. He only then realizes that he never moved beyond turning on the hot water until Will begins prying his fingers off of the counter.

“I didn’t mean to worry you this morning,” Will says quietly.

“I didn’t mean to upset you last night,” Hannibal replies.

“I just wanted to make you proud--”

“--and I made you feel like I wasn’t.”

Will nuzzles his face against the back of Hannibal’s shoulder. He laces their fingers together, his hands on top of Hannibal’s, and crosses them over Hannibal’s waist. “Yeah. And then the whole thing in the shower…”

Hannibal sighs. “I would like to see you decorate with more than lamps.” He pauses, then adds, “And I’m honestly surprised we aren’t drowning in dogs by now.”

“...You’d be okay with that?” Will sounds amazed, which surprises Hannibal, because he’d given Will explicit permission.

He lets go of Will’s hands and turns in his arms to face him. “I told you it was alright to bring home strays.”

“Right,” Will says slowly, “but you never said anything about dogs.”

Hannibal blinks at him. “I thought you rescued stray dogs.”

If he’s reading Will’s face correctly, a number of lamps have just come on over his head.

“Did you never notice how many unmatched lamps I had in my house?”

“I...well, yes. Yes, I suppose I did.”

Will smiles, and it’s like the sun has risen all over again, chases away the darkness from the corners of Hannibal’s mind and washes him in light. “Hannibal, that’s my other hobby. I find junk, dirty castoffs, _ strays,” _ and he emphasizes the last word. “I pick up the discards no one looks at, and I turn them into something they can see. I’m just...I don’t know, going through an absurdist phase right now.”

“So the dogs--”

_ “They _ find  _ me,” _ explains Will, “and  _ I _ find  _ lamps.” _

“You haven’t been decorating the house.”

“No,” says Will, shaking his head. “I haven’t, not yet.”

Hannibal laughs, as much in relief as it is in amusement. “This is the least lethal disagreement we’ve ever had.”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” corrects Will. “I imagine the next time we have a disagreement that one of us will become a catered luncheon.”

“Always a possibility.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to let us have a dog.”

“I can’t believe you ever thought I wouldn’t.” Hannibal cradles Will’s face in his hands, strokes his thumbs over his soft beard. “Do you still not understand that I would do anything to make you happy?”

“I’m getting more accustomed to the idea,” and Will kisses him gently with wind-chapped lips, his mouth still cold from the outdoors when Hannibal deepens it, slides his tongue along the inside of his cheeks to warm it. They get lost in each other, fingers winding into hair. Hannibal grips a fistful of Will’s cable knit sweater, and Will slips a hand into Hannibal’s bathrobe, making him gasp into his mouth when he rubs his thumb back and forth over a nipple.

“Breakfast,” Hannibal manages between heavy breaths.

Will chuckles, but doesn’t stop rubbing. “You would think of breakfast now. What are we having?”

“A little protein scramble,” says Hannibal, grinning.

“Of course we are.” Will removes his thumb at last, and gives Hannibal another quick kiss. “Let’s go enjoy breakfast, and then--” Another kiss. “--We’re gonna go enjoy you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had one helluva migraine today, so it might be a day or two before I get the last chapter up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's fitting that the longest chapter is chock full of unrepentant smut, don't you?

Hannibal can’t remember the last time he ate food without tasting it. Even during his incarceration, he took care to catalogue every flavor of varietal awful he was given in his three meals a day. He found the peas especially noxious, though he had gained an unusual appreciation for steak and gravy day. Denise always did her best to sneak him extra.

He knows Will is amused, and also that Will is taking an abnormally long time to eat, leering at him from the other side of the table over his coffee. “You know,” says Will, “the food tastes better than your disinterest is letting on.”

“It isn’t my best work,” Hannibal replies. “I was distracted while cooking.”

“For the same reason you’re distracted now?” Will has the audacity to smirk.

“Not quite the same, but it does stem from the same source.”

After a few moments of Hannibal continuing to pick at his breakfast, Will takes both of his wrists in a loose grip. “You know,” he begins, “we _can_ reheat this later. When you’re able to take your time and concentrate.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, setting his silverware on his plate in a manner which, at any other time, would cause him physical pain. “Of course.”

Will rubs his thumbs back and forth across Hannibal’s wrists. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“It escaped me.”

“I didn’t rest well, either,” Will admits. “Why don’t you go on upstairs? Lie down on the bed, relax, close your eyes, that sort of thing.”

“Are you telling me to take a nap, Will?”

“No,” says Will, “but I am suggesting it. I need to check in on our guest, anyway. Make sure he didn’t hop off or bleed out during the night. So you know, go…” Will clears his throat and releases on of Hannibal’s wrists in order to makes a vague hand motion. “Clean up, uh. You know, stuff, and--”

Hannibal chuckles. “If merely asking me to perform an internal rinse is difficult, I’m not certain you’re ready for the kind of activity that would follow.”

“It doesn’t bother me. I just didn’t want to be rude by accidentally insinuating you might not be anything other than scrupulously clean.”

“It’s hardly a rude request between intimate partners. At least, in my opinion.”

Will nods tightly, and it reminds him so much of the Will he met that Hannibal’s overcome with a sudden nostalgia. He’s given no time to embrace the feeling, though, Will saying, “Okay. So go clean yourself up, and lie down, and I’ll be upstairs before you know it.”

 

* * *

 

It isn’t the lips kissing up the side of his neck or the fingers in his hair that wake Hannibal up, but Will’s scent--an amalgam of his soap and this morning’s coffee, the wool of his parka and the tang of old blood. He hums groggily and nestles further into his pillow, keeping himself relaxed and warm and half-drifting.

Will breathes in his ear, a soft almost laugh. “You want to sleep a little longer?”

“I’d prefer seeing what you have in store for us.”

“For _you,”_ corrects Will. Hannibal cracks open one eye to look up at him, propped up on one elbow with the side of his head in the palm of his hand. “Never had much of a sex drive; it’s all but non-existent now. Yours doesn’t seem to be affected by age, whatsoever.”

Hannibal closes his eye again and enjoys the slight scratch of Will’s nails over his scalp. “My libido has remained relatively the same throughout my life, yes.”

“You’re awfully eloquent for someone who’s only half awake.”

“I was also blessed with a strong composure.”

Will moves his hand from Hannibal’s hair to his chin, tilting his head to make it easier to kiss him. They lie there trading lazy kisses long enough that Hannibal is able to extricate himself from the fuzz of half-sleep.

“What do you have planned for _me,_ then?”

“I want to watch you.”

And Hannibal wasn’t expecting that answer, at all, though perhaps he should have been. Will has yet to lay a hand on his sex, preferring for Hannibal to touch himself. He can’t deny a certain degree of disappointment, as hesitant as he would be to admit it aloud. Hannibal has always loved Will’s hands, perhaps longer than he’s even loved Will.

“You know,” says Will, “your mask is still excellent, but we’re...what was the word you used? Conjoined?”

Hannibal closes his eyes in delight. “Yes.”

“I like it, too,” and he strokes Hannibal’s hair like he would a cat. “But your eyes say everything to me now. After you helped spring me from the BSHCI, it’s been easy to read you. And I know you’re disappointed.”

He doesn’t resist now like he has before, allowing himself to press up into Will’s hand, to invite his touch. “I ache for your touch, Will. As I told you before, I will accept whatever you choose to give me.”

Will smiles down at him. “And I want to touch you as you like to be touched. So I would very much like to see the way you enjoy your own body.” He changes from stroking to scritching under Hannibal’s chin.

Hannibal doesn’t expect to love it as much as he does, but he unconsciously falls from his side to his back. Tilting his head back, Hannibal lets Will trail his nails down his throat, from chin to collar bones.

“I decided you’re a jaguar, by the way,” says Will, laughing. “An apex hunter. ‘Predator of all animals,’ if you believe the Greeks.”

“I approve wholeheartedly,” mumbles Hannibal.

“Can you walk me through it?” Will asks.

Hannibal licks his lips. “I start as you have.”

“Running your hands over your body? Which,” he continues, “I appreciate that you went to bed nude for me. That was very good. It makes it much easier, doesn’t it?”

“How so?”

Will moves across his body, straddling him for a few seconds. He settles in the middle of the bed and goes back to scratching down Hannibal’s neck, this time continuing on down his sternum. “It lets me wake you up like this. Do you like it, giving me access to your body?”

Hannibal turns his head to look at Will. “Yes.”

“Just allowing me to take?”

“As I did with yours,” says Hannibal. He moves his limbs restlessly, so Will changes to running the whole palm of his hand down his throat, down his chest, down to his belly, staying there to lightly rub back and forth. Hannibal hums his approval.

“Does that feel nice?”

“Oh, yes.”

Will kisses his temple. “Such a good kitty.”

Hannibal didn’t expect to like that, either, but he can’t stop the groan that crawls from his throat. He can’t help the twitch of his cock, or the sudden heat in his gut. Will lets out a harsh breath beside him, and Hannibal can smell the answering flush of his skin, the rush of blood to the surface.

“I wondered if that would excite you,” says Will. “How much control you would be willing to cede to me.”

“It would seem to arouse you, as well,” Hannibal notes. “And anything. I would give you anything.” He breathes deeply through his diaphragm, letting his belly fill Will’s hand.

“Show me what else you like to do, when you’re touching yourself alone.”

“I enjoy manipulating my nipples,” and he does, moving the fingers of one hand to circle a bud.

“Still so proper,” Will says. “What are we to do about that?” He removes his hand from Hannibal’s stomach and mimics his movement on the other nipple.

Hannibal gasps at the unexpected touch.

“Do you circle them first with the pads of your fingers?” Will is speaking lowly now, just above a whisper. His breath warms Hannibal’s ear.

“Sometimes. It...it depends on what I’m thinking about.” Hannibal feels warm all over, somewhat drowsy.

“And what do you usually think about?”

Hannibal swallows. “You. Your hands. Your touch. Your lips, if I am taking my time.”

“My mouth?” Will licks up the shell of his ear before sucking his lower lobe into his mouth.

“Mmm. I moisten my fingers.”

“Do that now,” and Hannibal does. He wets his fingers before rolling the buds of his nipples between them, arching into his own touch. “Look at you, Hannibal. Unraveling just for me. Where else do you imagine I touch you?”

He can’t answer, only says, “Your mouth. Please, Will, your mouth.”

Hannibal must sound as desperate as he feels--it’s been so long since he’s done this. Every touch is an escalation. If not for Will’s supervision, Hannibal wouldn’t have been able to draw it out. Will shushes him, starts caressing his stomach again to calm him down. He takes a moment to drop open-mouthed kisses to Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Good kitty,” he says, “so, so good.” Will lightly runs his knuckles up and down his torso. _“Shhhh,_ just stop for a minute, hold still.” When Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed again and his breathing eases--he hadn’t even noticed how close he was to hyperventilating--Will continues. “That’s it, that’s it. Easy, now.” Will stops petting him, and Hannibal whines quietly.

Will sits up and straightens his legs out. “Come here,” he says, "come lay in my lap.”

Somewhere in the distance, an open room within Hannibal’s memory palace, there’s a copy of him scoffing and embarrassed by this act of utter submission. Hannibal slams the door shut, and locks it for good measure. He ignores the slight unease of humiliation and sits up next to Will. But he _needs_ reassurance, _has_ to have it.

“Kiss me,” Hannibal requests, and Will does. It’s chaste and loving, only lips, no tongue. Will scratches behind his ear again, and Hannibal smirks a little against his lips and trills his tongue, purr-like.

“Oh, you really _are_ into this.” Will puts his arms around Hannibal as he settles into Will’s lap. Like this, Hannibal can not only see but _feel_ how warm Will’s skin has grown. It’s gratifying, knowing this is affecting them both, that it isn’t about Will trying to prove a point or, worse, doing this mechanically.

“I’m a predator, Will,” says Hannibal. Movement has helped him to recenter himself, if only briefly. “You said so yourself.”

Will chuckles. “So I did.” He kisses Hannibal’s cheek and forehead. “Tell me, when you masturbated, did you massage your prostate?”

Hannibal nuzzles against Will’s cheek and down into his neck, laying his head down on Will’s shoulder. “I can’t reach it myself. I used my dildo.”

“Come on, you had to have more than one toy. Admit it, Hannibal, you had a nice selection.”

“You would be correct.”

“Would you like me to assist you?”

Hannibal moans again, then bites at the join of Will’s neck and shoulder, worries it playfully. Will pushes into it, encourages him. As he sucks livid, possessive marks into Will’s skin, Will sighs contentedly, dragging his nails up Hannibal’s spine. He can taste the salt of Will’s sweat with each new spot he bruises.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Will runs his hand through Hannibal’s hair. “Wild thing,” he says affectionately before grabbing Hannibal by the back of the neck, like he might scruff an animal to pick it up. They see eye to eye again. “Face down, please. Rest over my lap with your ass in the air. And you’ll have to help me.”

The position is awkward, but Hannibal manages, lying his head on his arms. Will strokes his back for a few minutes, encouraging him to relax, and he does. He taps the backs of Hannibal’s thighs, and he scoots forward as much as he can; the tip of his cock brushes against Will’s bare thigh and he exhales harshly through his teeth. His arousal had been all but forgotten, but now it’s all he can think about it. Hannibal’s falling again, but he trusts Will to catch him.

Will takes his hand away from his back and reaches over to the bedside table. Hannibal hears the snap of a surgical glove.

“I hope this is alright,” says Will. “My hands are rough, as are yours, so I imagined that you used gloves, too.”

“Yes, I did,” Hannibal admits. “And it is _very_ alright.”

“You like the slick and the smoothness of it, don’t you?” Hannibal hears the click of a cap, and is grateful that Will thought to look for the KY he uses as surgical lubricant. “What should I do first?”

“Rub your thumb against my hole until--” He breaks off and sinks farther into his own arms, mouth nearly touching the sheets, breath stuttering.

Hannibal says nothing, only pushes farther into his touch. When Will’s thumb dips slightly inside, he keeps pushing. The glove feels exquisite as it slides into him. It's clinical and impersonal, another sign of who is in charge here. He feels the head of his cock growing wet and slick within the foreskin as he thinks about how Will's manipulation of his mind and body is so perfect and complete. That knowledge is almost more erotic than the gentle pressure of Will's thumb inside him.

But it isn’t an act without emotion. Will’s free hand is still carding through Hannibal’s hair, sometimes straying to rub up one of his folded arms. Hannibal wonders if Will has that same look of awe in his face as he did the last time; he flips his head to the other side to see, and Will’s face is so warm and affectionate that Hannibal almost wants to call it off so that he can stare at Will uninhibitedly.

“Maybe I should let you do the work yourself,” Will says. There’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

Will’s thumb isn’t enough anymore, isn’t long enough or thick enough. “More,” he says, Will’s thumb buried in his ass past the webbing between his fingers. “More, please, _please.”_

The thumb withdraws, and Hannibal hears Will applying more lube, and then there’s the tip of a finger pushing gently, slowly inside. Hannibal wants to roll his hips back again, take it all in one go, but Will is stroking at his inner walls so sweetly, almost torturously, that Hannibal doesn't want him to stop, wants to be used as Will desires. He melts into his touch, sagging into Will’s lap to let him take his weight.

“Good kitty,” says Will again, and Hannibal could live in those two words. “Just relax, darlin’, let me take care of you.”

Will's finger has glided into him deep enough that Hannibal feels Will’s knuckle against his entrance. His finger is searching, crooking, and a jolt surges through him, like sudden lightning, electric and pure. Will scratches the back of his neck, and withdraws his finger slowly.

“No, no, no--”

“Hush,” says Will, “it’s alright. You’ll be full again soon.”

Two fingers now, easing their way in, massaging, twisting slowly, and then both rubbing continuously as his prostate, one side and then the other and then both at once, between Will’s fingers and and and

“Touch yourself,” Will tells him. “Show me how you like to be touched.”

Hannibal doesn’t even get a hand there, coming with a shout. But he comes dry and unsatisfying, growling his frustration, and Will quiets hims again--”Wait for it, be good, I’ll take care of you, darlin’. There you go, there’s my good kitty, relax for me.” Will keeps rubbing, keeps going, milking Hannibal as he gasps and squirms through the aftershocks of the first orgasm. His cock is hard to the point of discomfort now, and tears crowd at the corners of his eyes, and he hasn’t stopped moaning.

And then he comes again, thick and white this time, shooting over and between Will’s thighs. He comes until all that’s left is a slow dribble, and then a drop, and then nothing.

“Up now,” says Will as he removes his fingers. “On all fours.” Hannibal can barely feel his limbs, but if Will asks him to run, he will. Instead, Will says, “You can lap up the milk if you want, clean it off my legs.” Hannibal does that, too, laving every bit of it up with his tongue as Will praises him--”good” and “beautiful” and even “thank you”--and runs a hand down his flank. When Hannibal’s done, he collapses back down again and just lies there in Will’s lap, enjoying the feel of Will’s hands on his body, and then of the cool cloth he wipes him down with.

The last he remembers is Will, shifting him down on his side again, pulling the covers over both of them. Will promises him a bath later, and draws him into his arms, and kissing, always kissing and touching his skin, and then sleep claims Hannibal once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon--THE THRILLING CONCLUSION*.
> 
>  
> 
> *May or may not be thrilling. Manufactured in a plant that processes nuts. Standard messaging rates may apply.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote so much conclusion that I felt the need to conclude the fic in two chapters. If I was sorry, I would apologize, but...yeah, #sorrynotsorry. <3

The **first** day after his complete, absolute, utter submission was much more difficult for Hannibal than he ever could have anticipated. It had started off well enough; Will woke him up around dinner time to give Hannibal the bath he’d been promised. They’d retreated downstairs to check on Lewandowski before reheating breakfast in the oven, paired with a light, dry Chinon instead of coffee. Will insisted that they leave the dishes for the morning--”I’ll wash them myself, I promise.” And then he’d drug Hannibal back to bed, where they spent the remainder of the evening wrapped up in each other’s arms and mouths.

And then the light of a new morning had woken him up, sun creeping along the down quilt as the prickling realization of how far Hannibal had debased himself crept up his spine. He spent the morning locked in the study in front of the harpsichord. Hannibal would have taken lunch there, too, if Will hadn’t picked the lock.

“You can’t stay in here all day, Hannibal.”

“I see no reason why not,” he replied. It was the first time they’d spoken since curling up in bed together the night before, discounting Will’s futile knocking and half-uttered curses through the keyhole to the study door right before breakfast.

“Are you planning on eating sheet music?”

Hannibal growled, “I thought I might start with your damned Staffordshire spaniel.” Not once did he spare Will a glance; he knew it was rude, but Hannibal couldn’t devote time to considering his feelings about the night before. Dismissing Will was his best recourse.

He felt Will’s eyes boring into the back of his head for a long time. Hannibal never turned around, though his mind helpfully supplied images of Will enacting his reckoning for the newest addition to a long line of trespasses, as if ignoring Will was somehow worse than gaslighting or gutting him. It would be to Hannibal, at least; to be forgotten is the cruelest fate of all.

When the door to the study shut, Hannibal felt like he’d suddenly broken something priceless.

Hannibal finally left the room **two** hours later, but didn’t go looking for Will, or for food, or for fresh clothes. Honestly, he hadn’t noticed that all he wore downstairs was a pair of red striped pajama pants until he stripped for a shower. Hannibal runs the water hotter than he normally would; the burn feels good on his back and ass and legs, but he still turns and lets it splash into his face. It hurts, but Hannibal doesn’t care, and lets it keep streaming down his forehead and cheeks until he goes numb to it.

The soap goes forgotten, held in his hand for a while, and then eventually dropped to thud into the floor and dent itself. Hannibal doesn’t remember dropping his head, but the water is running down the back of his neck. His knees crack as he falls to them; Hannibal can smell the blood, watch it flowing down the drain. The water is cold now, and everything hurts, and he’s pushed away Will and--

“Hannibal?” He never heard the door to the bathroom open. Maybe he didn’t close it, at all, but Will’s voice is soft and worried, and hadn’t he been angry when he left him at the harpsichord? The water shuts off, and Will repeats his name, and Hannibal doesn’t know why he’s crying, or why he went to the floor in the first place, or even why he came to take a shower.

“Will, I--” Hannibal’s voice is raspy. His whole body feels heavy. “I don’t--why are you here?”

“I heard you shouting,” says Will, sliding into the shower behind him, pulling Hannibal down to the floor between his legs. Will’s still in his boxer briefs and tee like he was when he went to bed the night before.

“I didn’t realize.” He winces when he tries to straighten his legs, so he doesn’t, just lets Will wrap his arms around him, lacing his fingers around his calves. Hannibal tucks his face into Will’s neck and breathes in deeply; he feels calm and grounded for the first time since he woke up around four in the morning. “I’m unsure what has come over me, Will. The night in the study, and now, this?”

“When was the last time you let yourself be free, Hannibal?”

“I have never been fettered, even when I was.”

Will sighs. “You know what I mean. When was the last time you weren’t truly in control of the situation? When you let yourself go? When you weren’t innately prepared for every inevitability?”

And that gives Hannibal pause. He thinks perhaps that night on the cliff, but Hannibal had been open to death as long as he went in Will’s arms. Maybe Mason’s capture, but Hannibal had never felt out of control; he knew that he and Will would escape. Surrendering to Jack and the police was nothing more than an inconvenience. Sending Dolarhyde after Will? Hannibal had only waited for a way to send Will a truly memorable message, a wake-up call for the darkness inside him. The night he killed Abigail, perhaps, but he had prepared for that, too, to be betrayed by the one great love of his life.

There’s only one instance before last night, and it was far from pleasurable. “Mischa,” he whispers, and Will tightens his hold on him.

“How did you feel last night, when you surrendered to me?”

Hannibal shudders, but not unpleasantly. “Protected,” he says. “Cherished. Safe.”

“Are you embarrassed of that?” asks Will. He moves one hand to Hannibal’s wet hair and begins to stroke it.

“More...surprised than embarrassed, I suppose. I knew I enjoyed your dominance, your forceful personality. That was something I’d already come to terms with and accepted. But…” Hannibal scents him again, nuzzles against his shoulder. “It was immensely relaxing to let my humanity drain away, to go a step beyond submission, and that...that disturbed me.”

Will stops petting his hair and strokes his leg, instead. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I spent the majority of my life schooling myself into a person, and in a matter of days, you’ve stripped it away from me.” Hannibal worries Will’s neck with his teeth, is pleased by the soft sound of approval it wrings from Will. “And I’ve let you do it willingly.”

“So what you’re saying-- _oh,_ yes, that feels...mmm, that’s nice. I love your _mouth,_ Hannibal.”

He doesn’t mean to paw at Will’s chest, but that’s exactly what Hannibal does. It’s so easy to melt into a more animal mindset, but now they’ve talked about it, and that makes it okay. Will doesn’t think less of him--

“Of course I don’t, darlin’. Why would I?” Will begins to lightly rake his nails up from Hannibal’s ankle to his thigh. It sends a pleasant tingling shiver straight to his groin. “Jesus, do you have any idea how--how amazingly _satisfying_ that is? That you trust me so completely as to let go of yourself? It’s a gift.”

Hannibal laughs a little. “A rare one,” he says. “Yet another.”

Will stops and takes Hannibal’s hand from where it rests on his chest. He kisses the fingertips, the palm, the wrist. “And I want this one, too,” Will tells him. “And this time, I’m taking it.” Will smiles against Hannibal’s skin. “Come on. Let’s get your knees cleaned up.”

 

* * *

 

They work through Lewandowski’s remaining **three** limbs with a ruthless sort of efficiency. After their discussion following the disastrous removal of the right leg, Will isn’t taking it as seriously.

“It’s an art,” Hannibal told him. “If you aren’t enjoying yourself, it shows in the workmanship.”

“Is that why the mark on my forehead looks like shit?”

“I could try again, if you like.”

Hannibal’s honestly baffled that, out of all the hundreds if not _thousands_ of conversations they’ve had over the years--out in the field, in the office, over dinner--they’d never thought to spend a few minutes apologizing and ironing out expectations in order to head off any further unpleasantness. They could have avoided so much heartbreak if they’d only thought to open their mouths and be honest once in awhile.

Better late than never, Hannibal supposes.

Right now, Will is poking him with one of Lewandowski’s arms and giggling, and Hannibal wonders exactly what sort of beast he’s awakened. He frowns as he sutures.

“What?” asks Will, thumping Hannibal’s shoulder with Lewandowski’s hand, the arm wrapped behind Hannibal’s neck in the manner of an overly-friendly drunken companion. “You told me to enjoy myself not half an hour ago.”

“And now you are having too much fun.”

“Oh come on, loosen up. We’re not serious-al killers.”

Hannibal pauses his work, closes his eyes, and sighs the sigh of the long-suffering. “That was terrible, Will. Quite beneath you.”

Will snorts and uses Lewandowski’s hand to patronizingly pat Hannibal on the head. “Now you know how the rest of the world feels about your puns. Or at least me, I suppose.” He drops the arm, letting it dangle from his hand, Lewandowski’s fingers dragging along the tile floor. “We really need to procure an audience at some point.”

“I rather like this home and would prefer to remain here.”

“This can’t be the only safe house you own, Count Moneybags,” says Will. “We could always vacation at one of them. Leave this as our refuge.”

Hannibal ties off a stitch, finishing the skin graft over the shoulder stump. “Are you suggesting taking cannibalism trips, Will?”

Will pecks him on the cheek. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t appeal to you.”

“On the contrary.” Hannibal sets down his equipment, turning to wrap his arms around Will’s waist. “I would very much enjoy watching your wrath, staged or no.”

Will hums, dropping the arm to the floor--Hannibal winces at that, but says nothing--and bringing his own arms to rest on Hannibal’s shoulders. “You just like seeing me dripping in blood.”

“When it isn’t yours,” says Hannibal.

“When it isn’t mine.” He leans in for a kiss, and Hannibal lets him plunder his mouth, all too happy to let Will steer him toward the wall in between the hanging knives. Will plants his hands on either side of Hannibal’s head, his forearms pinning his shoulders; Hannibal can smell the warm iron as Will lets the sharp blades scrape and scratch at his arms. He moans into Will’s mouth, moans louder when Will kicks his legs apart and presses his own hardness against Hannibal’s rapidly-filling cock.

“I thought you didn’t like my blood,” Will says, nipping at Hannibal’s bottom lip.

“I stand corrected.” Hannibal is a shade close to panting when Will wraps his hand around one of the hunting knives and pulls down across the blade. Blood drips down Will’s wrist as he presents his palm to Hannibal’s mouth, and Hannibal can’t help himself, has to taste, has to lick and tease at the wound.

“Enjoy this,” Will tells him, punctuating his words with the undulation of his hips. “It won’t happen often.”

“Next time-- _ohhh.”_ Hannibal is distracted momentarily, feeding from Will’s hand. He regains his senses momentarily, but still can’t manage to open his eyes for more than a flutter of lids and lashes. “I want you to take my mouth next time,” he requests.

Will chuckles darkly. “I think that can be arranged. I do love watching you gasp for breath.” He laughs harder as Hannibal’s hips buck against him. “Speaking of,” continues Will, “take a deep one. You’re going to need it.”

And Hannibal does, and all he smells is death, all he tastes is life, running thick and hot into his mouth. He suckles at the gash on Will’s hand like a newborn at their mother’s breast. It draws his attention away from how he exhales before Will pinches his nostrils shut; the blood is more vital than air. Hannibal can live off of this, this elixir, Will’s cursing mouth pressed against the back of his own hand. Their lips are separated by skin and flesh and bone, and Hannibal’s hips are stuttering as his body cries for air.

“I’ve got you,” he hears through the haze in his head. “You don’t need to do anything, Hannibal. I’ll give you what you need.” Hannibal forces his eyes open only to look into the end of a closing tunnel, Will’s face further and further away. “I’ll keep you safe,” Will swears, “don’t fight it. Don’t fight.”

Will rocks against his body, thrusting against him again and again, and Hannibal knows that he won’t come, not this time, not with his oxygen withheld for so long. But Will is using Hannibal’s body to chase his own pleasure, and that almost feels _better_ than release, and he wonders if this is how they will give and take from now on. The cycle seems right, that neither of them complete without the other, but only self-actualize alone.

Hannibal’s head tips forward of its own accord, his vision gone, slumping save for the two sharp pins of Will’s elbows in the join of his shoulders and torso. A final forceful grind, and Will shouts as he comes, and Hannibal dies a tiny death alongside him as the light fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, it's funny, but I thought to myself, "Maybe I should tag for non-consensual voyeurism," because of Lewandowski and all. Then I realized I would also have to tag for non-consensual medical procedures performed by serial killers, and that's a very long tag. Also very silly.
> 
> Okay, next update is actually the end. I know I've said that the past two chapters (I think? I've slept a smidge since then) but this time, it really is gonna be over. I promise. Honest. Hand to G-d.
> 
> [thumbs up]


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, guise. I did it. I actually finished a work-in-progress.
> 
> Couldn't have done it without you. <3

_“The Love that calms this heaven always welcomes_

_into Itself with such a salutation,_

_to make the candle ready for its flame.”_

 

_\--Dante’s Paradiso, Canto XXX_

 

Building the snowman was much more complex than either of them anticipated. It wasn’t the frame that gave them trouble--lashing Lewandowski to a pole and securing it in the ground was hardly difficult. While Will glued his mouth and eyes shut, Hannibal secured the nasal canula that would provide him with oxygen from the tank until he inevitably froze to death. It amused Hannibal to no end that Will wrapped Lewandowski’s torso in thermal blankets and gave him three snugly-fitting toboggan caps.

“I want him to live as long as possible,” Will explained, wrapping the last of the blankets around Lewandowski’s neck like a scarf before pulling out the duct tape to secure everything. “It’s no fun if he dies before truly experiencing what it is to be a living snowman.”

“Your design is creative in its cruelty.” Hannibal picked up the other rolls of tape to hold until Will needed them.

“How long until the drugs wear off?”

“Not long now,” said Hannibal. “I’d say no more than ten, perhaps fifteen minutes.”

It has now been twenty-five, and Lewandowski looks like a giant mound of snow-covered blankets. His head thrashes wildly at the top, screaming muffled by glue and duct tape. The project is grotesque for all the wrong reasons, and Will looks as disappointed as Hannibal feels.

“I’ve searched on Pinterest,” Will says, scrolling away on his phone, “but I keep coming up with memes and coloring sheets and ideas for kids’ birthday parties.”

“This hardly seems an appropriate activity for a children’s party.”

“He might make an interesting piñata,” Will replies with a shrug. He bites his lip and adds, “We should probably never have children.”

“We could homeschool,” says Hannibal, smirking.

Will opens his mouth in protest, then scowls instead. “I’ll start a board.”

“Excellent.”

“It’s still a terrible idea.”

“No worse than this snowman.” Hannibal laughs as Will kicks snow up on his legs.

“Seriously, though,” says Will, “kids can build snowmen. According to Pinterest, squirrels and--and Japanese macaques can build snow... _things._ We’re intelligent, grown-ass adults; how are we not figuring this out?”

Hannibal licks his lips and continues brushing the snow off of his snowsuit. “You forget that most snowpersons outside of animation have no actual living creatures secreted inside them.”

“...Oh.” Will drops his arms to his sides and stares at Lewandowski. “That’s...hmm. I’m not sure whether I feel less stupid or _more_ stupid.”

“I, for one, simply feel cold.”

“Wanna just cover him up with snow, stick a flag in the top, and call it Mt. Lewandowski?” Will suggests. “And then maybe you could make us hot cocoa?”

Hannibal starts gathering up handfuls of snow in lieu of looking Will in the eyes. “Do we have more of th--”

“The horrible, pedestrian, non-gourmet bagged marshmallows that you eat when I’m not looking?”

“Yes, those.”

Will holds Lewandowski’s head still while Hannibal begins packing the snow around it. “We do, you giant doof. We most certainly do.”

 

* * *

 

Lewandowski’s long dead by the time Will makes the final drive down to his office for his final appointment **four** days later. He had meant to call the secretary service to cancel, and then act horrified over the phone at the news of his psychiatrist’s disappearance, but the twenty-four hour cancellation window comes and goes. After that, Hannibal refuses to let him.

“He’s in our backyard,” said Will.

“It’s rude.”

“He’s _dead_ in our backyard.”

Hannibal curled his lip and narrowed his eyes and repeated, “It’s rude.”

“Okay, but the secretary could have called me to let me know,” Will insisted. “There’s nothing wrong with breaking etiquette when she was discourteous.”

“Yes, there is.”

Will rolled his eyes, likely pleading with the ceiling to fall on Hannibal’s head. “Did I mention that he’s dead?”

But Will had relented at last, only to sneak out of the house and drive off while Hannibal was getting ready to go with him. Hannibal has spent the rest of the morning and afternoon being particularly unkind to his pots and pans, occasionally glaring up at the series of graters-cum-lamps suspended over the kitchen island.

Those are at least better than the light fixture that was crafted from an old industrial boat propeller that now hangs in the entryway. Hannibal has Will’s word that it will be moved into the shed once said building is constructed, but Hannibal won’t hold his breath.

After all, Will does such a wonderful job of holding it for him.

Hannibal pounces on Will as soon as he comes up from the basement later that night, having deposited another bag full of unlikely potential light sources in his workroom, and makes him demonstrate exactly _how_ good he is at taking Hannibal’s breath away. It’s certainly better than his other plan, which was to hide behind the front door with a saute pan and exact his revenge for being left behind one concussion at a time.

 

* * *

 

They curl up together on the divan--or, as Will prefers to call it, the pretentious couch--most evenings now, once the kitchen and dining room have been cleaned to Hannibal’s standards. Will usually goes upstairs and changes into his pajamas first, but Hannibal likes to maintain some of his civilized traits, even if he doesn’t wear three-piece suits as often these days. He chooses a book (Hannibal never reads only one at a time) and takes his customary spot; Will joins him with his tablet and plops down on his end, usually putting his sock feet in Hannibal’s lap. Some nights they drink wine; others, they share whiskey, still others, nothing at all.

Tonight, however, when Will joins him in the sitting room, he says, “Why don’t you go get comfortable, too?”

Hannibal looks up from _A Study in Scarlet._ “I’m comfortable now.”

“Well, go get more so.” When Hannibal doesn’t move, now eyeing Will suspiciously, he adds, “Pretty please.”

So Hannibal does, carefully closing his book and setting it down in his seat. Will follows him out of the room, but turns into the kitchen; Hannibal hears the door to the basement open and close. Dreading yet another lamp, he takes two stairs at a time, then changes into a pair of sleep pants, and undershirt, and a soft gray sweater. If he hurries, Hannibal can make it back to the sitting room before Will sullies it with a new and daring light fixture.

Hannibal isn’t fast enough, though, and Will is already sitting on the divan when he comes back in. To Hannibal’s great relief, there are no new lamps; instead, Will has what looks to be a shirt box sitting on his lap. It’s wrapped in brown, and Hannibal makes a mental note to order another roll of butcher paper since his has apparently disappeared into the workroom.

Will is drumming his fingers anxiously against the lid of the box. “Feel better?”

“I felt fine before,” says Hannibal. He picks up his book and lays it on the end table before retaking his seat. “You’re nervous.”

“Uh, yeah.” Will swallows, then opens his mouth as if to say something, then simply passes the box to Hannibal. “That’s for you,” he says. “I...I’m not sure if you’ll actually like it, but I think you will. Hope you will.”

“Is this an effort to endear me to your gift before I open it?”

“No, I’m just really bad at giving presents.” He taps his fingers on his knees in agitation. “Go on, open it up.”

Hannibal side-eyes him, wary, but eventually slides his thumb under one of the taped edges. He’s careful not to rip the paper, taking his time and going slowly to prevent as much damage as possible. Once he’s finally removed the wrapping, Will has started pacing in front of the fireplace, though he stops once he notices that Hannibal’s opened the box.

“There’s two things in there,” Will suddenly says. “Well, three things, actually, but--just...just know there are three items.”

“One of which is actually two.” Hannibal looks over at Will, amused.

“No, two of which is actually one,” clarifies Will. “Sorry, continue, please.”

Hannibal hesitates for a moment, then opens the box.

Sitting on top of what looks to be several layers of folded tissue paper is a choker. He hears the lid drop to the floor like the first drop of rain hits dry pavement--too quiet a sound to truly register, but enough to alert the ear. His heart is pounding, and his fingers twitch toward the mahogany-brown leather of their own accord. Hannibal picks it up, and is pleased by how deceptively light it is, how supple, how butter-soft and smooth the leather feels against his skin.

The choker is elegant in a simplistic kind of way; unassuming, subtle, _discreet_. It’s cap riveted, a series of small copper-colored circles that run down the middle along the whole length of the finger-width leather; they match the end caps and the lobster claw clasp. Currently, however, it’s unfastened, and the closure may not lock, but Hannibal knows exactly what it is Will means to be giving him.

“I suppose this explains all the hammering downstairs,” Hannibal murmurs, rubbing his thumbs over the outside of not the necklace, not the choker, but the _collar._

“I found one of those heavy duty hole punches in your box of pliers,” says Will. “It seemed providential, so after that first night in here, when you let me see you…” Will takes a shaky breath. “I only thought I’d seen you before, but you were so _bare,_ Hannibal, and I still don’t really know what I’m doing in basically all aspects of my life right now--”

“You are much more adept than you think,” but Hannibal sounds distant, even to himself. He can’t tear his eyes away from the leather in his hands.

“--but you are so willing to give me the lead, to trust me, and…” Will sighs and comes back over to sit next to Hannibal on the divan. He puts a finger under Hannibal’s chin, turns him to face him. “You have no idea how much that means to me. Like I said before, it’s a gift, and I’m all too happy to accept. And this is a sign of that, so you never have to wonder.”

It hits Hannibal all at once, the reality of the life they’ve made for themselves here. “You’re staying,” he says, and it sounds silly to say it out loud, to say something Will has told him time and time again. But perhaps Will is right; perhaps Hannibal did need something tangible to hold onto. So much of their relationship has been built on words alone. Here, right here in his hands, lie words made flesh.

“Of course I’m staying,” says Will, now stroking the sides of Hannibal’s face. “I made my choice before I threw us off the cliff, before I found Chiyoh, even before I came to see you that first time.”

“Your family--”

“They belonged to a shadow of myself. And I belong to you.” Will smiles a little sadly. “Can you still not see how much I love you?”

“You’ve never said,” Hannibal whispers. “Not out loud. Not like this.”

“Well, I do. In spite of everything. But love never makes sense, does it?”

Hannibal clutches the back of Will’s neck and brings their foreheads to rest against each other. “Very rarely,” he agrees.

“Go on,” coaxes Will. “Open the rest.”

He pulls back reluctantly, and opens the tissue paper with one hand, refusing to let go of the collar as though it’s a lifeline. Hannibal is unsure what could be more important or--dare he say--more exciting than the first gift, and then his fingertips hit fur.

The gloves are nearly the same color as the collar, covered in a pelt of long silken hair. He flips one over and sees that they are really gloves, that each finger is distinct, though the top of the hand makes it seem otherwise. The leather is the same color, but more worn, a few rough edges here and there.

“I didn’t make those,” Will says. “Those I found completely by accident on my last trip to the psychiatrist. Same shop as the rest of the stuff I’ve brought home, but I would say vastly more important.” He sounds a bit embarrassed as he adds, “I thought it might help you relax. You always seem to enjoy yourself when you, um.” Will clears his throat in an almost laugh. “When you become more feline in your grace. But you always feel uncomfortable later. Because you think about it too much, I think. So now it can be something you leave behind with these. God, I don’t know if I’m making sense, I just--”

“Thank you,” and it would seem that Hannibal isn’t going to find his voice for the rest of the evening. “I think it will help immensely. I--would you?”

“Put them on you?”

“Yes. Please.”

Will kisses his cheek; Hannibal can feel him grinning. “Can I put the collar on you first?”

Hannibal doesn’t trust himself to do more than nod, and even that is a jerky, unfluid movement. Will takes it from his hand; he has to unpeel Hannibal’s fingers from where he’s clutched it in his fist. He lets Will tilt his chin up and lengthen his throat, and Hannibal’s eyes slip closed as he feels the caress of the thin band of leather. The clasp sits warm at the back of his neck, easily undone if Hannibal wants to remove it.

He doesn’t.

His body feels heavier than he remembers, so Hannibal follows instinct, stops forcing himself to play the stoic. He settles himself with his head in Will’s lap, loose-limbed and relaxed. Will slides one glove over his right hand, and then the other, and he lets each fall to rest on his belly. His face seeks Will’s stomach of its own accord, nuzzles into the softness there, breathes deeply, slowly.

“That’s good,” Will praises in a quiet voice. “That’s good, Hannibal, just fall.” Softer still, “Good kitty.”

Will strokes through his hair and down his face, under his chin, along his throat, nails lightly dragging down his breast bone. He keeps repeating the process, over and over, Hannibal’s head resting on one thigh while Will balances his tablet on the other. Hannibal can hear Will humming something he thinks might be the music Hannibal composed at the harpsichord the day Will found him in the shower. Perhaps Will had stayed close to him even then, even as he pushed Will away and demanded solitude.

Has he been training Hannibal like one of his dogs all this time? Letting him pull and tug at the end of his metaphorical leash only to bounce back and seek his master’s hand? His comfort and approval? He considers that he should probably care that he’s been manipulated as such, that he’s let Will possess him so completely, but it doesn’t bother him one bit.

**Five** minutes pass like sand through molasses, like light splinters from one end of space to the other, sudden and slow all at once. There’s nothing more to consider, nothing but to let Will pull him down into another maelstrom.

Hannibal’s never been happier in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you may not have noticed, but this is now part of a series, because I really loved writing this dynamic. Also there isn't enough Gentle Dom!Will/sub!Hannibal fic. ~~And maybe fic about homeschooled murderous cannibal children.~~ Write what you wish to see in the world, right? Pretty sure that's how the saying goes. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me. You don't know how much that means.
> 
> Love and cannibaes forever,  
> Ship

**Author's Note:**

> I made a [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/shiphitsthefan/ficlike-sudden-lightning/) for this, in case you're curious; I'll probably be pinning things to it for inspiration for other fics in the series.
> 
> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I also chirp occasionally witty things on [twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


End file.
